


69 Love Stories

by Spada2014



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 96,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spada2014/pseuds/Spada2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots and short stories about love in all its forms (sacred/profane, spiritual/carnal, inspirations/obsessions, etc.) taking place in the DA:I universe. The first story opens with Varric, who has received a coded letter. It's from Bianca. And he's still mad at her... Chapter 49 starts a story arc about Hawke's return from Adamant and the Fade...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Varric

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I came up with the idea of writing "69 Love Stories" after listening to one of my favorite albums, "69 Love Songs" by the Magnetic Fields. I thought it would be a fun challenge to come up with 69 one-shots about love in all its forms (sacred/profane, spiritual/carnal, inspirations/obsessions, etc.) taking place in the DA:I universe. I started writing a few... and then the enormity of what I had set out to do hit me. 69. As fun and cheeky as the title is, I didn't think I could come up with 69 stories- even if they were one-shots, even if they were simple vignettes, snapshots of Thedas. So I put it away, shelved the idea, and mentioned it in passing to one of my favorite authors and patient friend, Jane Beyre. "Wasn't that a crazy idea?" I laughed. And like Varric's publisher, she cheered me on, offered amazing ideas, stoked the flames of my delusion...So here we are.
> 
> Although not strictly necessary, you might want to read my story "A Matter of Consequence" for the imagined world state this unfolds in (the Inquisitor is a Trevelyan, a woman, and a mage who is involved with Cullen; Adan and Ava may be recurring characters, Celene rules Orlais with Briala by her side, and there are other characters I imagined and populated Skyhold with).
> 
> I don't know if I'll be able to write 69 actual chapters...but I'm determined to enjoy the ride as far as it takes me. Maybe you'll join me? Thanks for reading!

"Why should things be easy to understand?"

― Thomas Pynchon 

* * *

 

"For you," Josephine stated, leaning the envelope against Varric's tankard of ale. "I couldn't find you anywhere earlier," she apologized, startling him from his writing.

Varric peered up from his parchment, fighting back the scowl he flashed indiscriminately anytime he was interrupted. He'd been writing all afternoon, tucked away at the table in front of the fireplace in Skyhold's main hall, determined to satisfy both his publisher's demands for an update and the Inquisitor's request that he do "something special" for Cassandra. He had, indeed, many "special" things in mind: at that particular moment, he wanted to hurl all his idiotic characters down a cliff and have the world erupt in a fiery blast of...fire. He cursed his own name for fancying himself a romance writer— it had been on a whim, an inebriated evening with his wretched publisher goading him on, telling him he had cornered the market for adventure, if only he'd corner the romantic one, too! His publisher, cunning scoundrel, had thrown down the gauntlet. And he, filled with ale of dubious pedigree, had broken his own rule of never signing off on any anything—at least not using his real name—while drunk.

"Thanks, Ruffles," he said dismissively.

He noticed she lingered nearby, observing him.

"May I help you?" he asked with a contrived little grin sure to annoy her.

"Aren't you going to open it?" she wondered, suddenly self-conscious. "It's from  _her_."

_Well, Maferath's flaming balls!_

Of course it was.

He recognized the handwriting, tight and tidy, right away. And the ink. Why she couldn't just use black or blue ink made him shake his head. This time it was a deep, purply red. He reached his rough hands to the envelope and tore it open. Josephine, apparently satisfied that she had done her part, wandered off, her elegant slippers clicking on the polished stone floor.

Bianca could never just write him a letter—not with her family and husband lurking around. Anything she wrote, especially to him, would pass through several hands before it was properly intercepted. Such audacity usually resulted in the launching of assassins on his heels. Josephine had been kind enough to serve as an intermediary, receiving and delivering Bianca's cryptic missives. There was nothing suspicious about the letters addressed to the Inquisition, not even those addressed "Attn: Ambassador Montilyet." To everyone else they looked just like what they intended to be: regular business between the Inquisition and its contractor. There were requests for materials, lists of random parts and pieces. Utterly boring and dull. Work as usual.

"Pay attention to the  _last_  line. The message to you will always be coded there," she had told him soon after securing a bid on a contract to work with the Inquisition.

"So you write an entire letter filled with nonsense but only code the last line?"

"I'd code the entire thing—don't put it past me," she quipped. "But there would be no guarantee you'd be competent enough to decode it," she teased.

So began their odd correspondence. Sometimes it took him hours to figure out her little puzzles. Most of them were numerical, and those he was quite good at. They usually ended up giving him a set of dates and coordinates on a map. They were her hopeful invitations for a rendez-vous or the occasional playful or even cheeky phrase about her thoughts or feelings for him, something that always made him grin. He would then dictate messages for Josephine to send back to her.

"Tell her 'No.'"

"Just like that?" Josephine would arch an eyebrow.

He'd sigh.

"Ask her if the delivery of the goods can be made a few days earlier. She'll understand."

And so they had grown used to communicating through that roundabout way, with Josephine's kind assistance… and blatant misuse of Inquisition stationery.

Things had remained quiet for a while after their last encounter, after everything that happened at Valammar. He'd been so disappointed in her and angry at himself. He couldn't decide what he resented more: her curiosity and need to seek answers despite the consequences, or his desire to tell a good story trumping caution and discretion. Meanwhile, he hadn't replied to any of her small puzzles since; they were all apologetic and filled with pleas and regrets. His eyes quickly perused the familiar list requesting salvaged scraps and other materials such as iron, lead wheel weights, molds, and nails, working all the way down to the last line. Upon reading it, he sat back and balked.

There were no quantities, no numbers. Just a continuation of the random items.

Tracer. Tar. Shiv. Voile.

A hastily scribbled calculation crept up the right margin, written sideways. The answer to the equation was an eight, drawn on its side, right next to the final items: ∞.

His hand trembled for a moment. Perhaps she had given up at last. Maybe that was an actual requisitions list and Josephine had delivered it to him out of habit; Bianca did, after all, work for the Inquisition.

 _It's for the best_ , he grimaced tartly, taking a deep draught from his tankard, his amber eyes reflecting the roaring fire.

He pushed the letter aside, determined to focus on his work, but his heart's pounding wouldn't let him concentrate. After several minutes passed by unproductively, he finally seized the letter again impatiently and glared at the last line.

"Voile."

_What the fuck does a smith need voile for?_

He tapped his quill over the letters, willing them to reveal their meaning.

 _It's an anagram. Damned easy one, too,_ he realized with a grin.

She knew he hated anagrams with a passion.

Later on he would wander into Josephine's office and request that she draft a simple reply.

"Tell her that the Inquisition commends her on her efforts and looks forward to a continued partnership."

Josephine offered him an inscrutable smile and he groaned. Maker knew what sugary nonsense was unfurling in her romance-addled mind.

He always had to burn the lists afterwards. He couldn't risk anyone nosy coming upon them among his personal belongings. He watched the parchment burn, his own handwriting more expansive and wide below hers, in his decoding effort, flaring up as the flame caught the ink next to the eight.

"I love Varric Tethras. Infinitely."

 _Damn you, woman…And that's how you ruin me for all others_ , he chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 down. 68 to go!
> 
> I'm open to suggestions, scenarios, and situations you may want to share.


	2. The Princeling

"A 'strange coincidence,' to use a phrase  
By which such things are settled nowadays."

~Lord Byron

* * *

 

A golden hue bathed the walls of the stony bedroom. Outside the wind howled something fierce, prompting the mother to raise the blankets to her child’s chin. He was unfazed, though, his earnest face encouraging her to continue. 

 

“What happened then?” he insisted.

 

She sat back resignedly. Sleep would not come easily tonight, she realized, looking into the boy’s eyes. They said boys resembled their mothers and daughters their fathers, and she had been inclined to believe the old wives’ tale except when the light caught his profile a certain way. Depending on the angle, she could swear she was looking at her son’s father— the same strong nose, chin, brown eyes…

 

“Mum!” he pleaded. 

 

She grinned and ran her hand over his cheek.

 

“Very well, little man. Where were we?”

 

“ Lorran’s about to descend into the lair!”

 

“Ah, yes! Lorran grasped his sword, unsheathing it and wielding it before him defensively. He cautiously approached the great iron gate…”

 

The boy huddled deeper into the bed, his eyes open wide. He’d heard the story before—several times, but never tired of how his mother told it, since she frequently changed the plot. Her voice knew how to coax the scary bits out in ways mere words in books never could. He could never be certain whose side she was on— sometimes the hero was the hero and sometimes he was the villain— so he’d often find himself wondering if he’d aligned his sympathies correctly. And the battles! She would release wisps of fire into the air, evoking the explosions and eruptions of her narratives. It was delightfully terrifying, he found, watching his mother’s cat-like eyes shimmer in the firelight. 

 

“‘Foolish man!’ the dragon warned him.‘The treasure you should be seeking is not of this world!’” she said in a lugubrious voice. “ ‘Gold and precious stones are common rubble in this realm of darkness and silence. You have disturbed my slumber for nothing!’”

 

He squirmed nervously under the covers. It was now. The moment  Lorran and the dragon would stare each other down, each convinced of the righteousness of his beliefs, each prepared to step over the threshold irreversibly, sealing their fates. 

 

A faint knock sounded against the door. He kicked his feet in frustration, turning to his side and punching the pillow lightly. His mother moved her hand towards him in a soothing gesture, but the knock sounded forth once more, urging her to answer it promptly. She straightened the skirt of her formal dress and ran her fingers over her short dark hair before crossing into the small parlor and opening the door.A young elven woman stood outside, her hand raised halfway to the door.

 

“Lady Morrigan,” she said politely. “I apologize for my delay. I was held up—“

 

“You are here now,” she interrupted, with her usual cool charm. “And Kieran’s already in bed. I was hoping he’d be an easy charge for you this evening, but he is having trouble settling.”

 

The young woman entered the room, removing her cloak and draping it over a chair. 

 

“Hello Kieran.” Her voice possessed the bright lilt of the Dalish.

 

“Hello Alea,” he replied sullenly. 

 

He turned to his mother, a mournful expression on his face. “Can’t you finish the story before you go?” he implored. 

 

“We can continue tomorrow,” she suggested, heading for the door. “Is it very crowded downstairs?” she asked Alea. 

 

“I’d say it’s been crowded for a good hour,” the woman admitted.

 

_Perfect_ , Morrigan thought. She’d make her entrance discreetly. 

 

“But what happens to _Lorran_?” Kieran finally sat up in the bed.

 

Morrigan turned around abruptly, raising her palms and casting a barrage of flames towards the ceiling. Both Keiran and Alea jumped, but for very different reasons.

 

“The dragon ate him whole,” she grinned. “For some dragons—not all, mind you— are wise in the ways of the world… and even of the Beyond. It would have benefitted Lorran to listen to his warnings.”

 

Alea turned a slightly discomfited face to Kieran.

 

“Greedy Lorran,” he shook his head disappointedly. “I wonder if tomorrow he will do better?”

 

“We shall have to wait and see, won’t we?” She bent down and planted a kiss on her son’s forehead. “Now quiet down and don’t give Alea any cause for complaint, my love.” 

 

She addressed the woman.

 

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

 

“Very well,” she acknowledged, taking her seat by Kieran's bed.

 

Morrigan paused before the mirror by the bedroom door to pull on her gloves.

 

“Would you like to hear one of my stories?” Alea proposed.

 

“Will it be in Elvish?” Kieran asked suspiciously.

 

“Your mother does want me to speak it to you as often—“

 

He frowned.

 

“Does it have dragons?”

 

“Not this one…no…But,” she continued conspiratorially, “it has an ogre!”

 

His eyes brightened.

 

“And plenty of magic!” she laughed.

 

Morrigan smiled as she stepped out into the parlor and headed for the door, ready to depart.

 

“Will anyone be changed into…a frog?” he asked, with slight concern in his voice. 

 

Morrigan’s head whirled around in surprise and disbelief.

 

“What is this preoccupation all of a sudden?” she asked, stepping back into the bedroom, caught off guard by how eerily familiar the question sounded.

 

“It’s just that in all these Dalish stories people keep getting turned into animals,” Kieran complained. “They just wiggle their fingers and then…ZAP! It’s frog time.”

 

Morrigan had to clasp the railing tightly on her way down to the formal gathering. 

 

_Coincidence_ , she told herself. _Mere coincidence_. 

 

Kieran was just talking like a child talks, that’s all…And yet, hadn’t his father often sounded like one, too? 

 

She sighed deeply. 

 

_Of all the similarities they should share_ , she thought, shaking her head. 

 

Her left eye hadn’t twitched like that in years. 

 


	3. Bliss

"To get the full value of joy you must have someone to divide it with."

― Mark Twain

* * *

_Few things feel as good as this_ , Bull decided lustily, his nostrils flaring with pleasure. He flicked his tongue over the smooth ridges, savoring the earthy and spicy taste.

_Mm. Chocolate._

From where he stood everything in the world was right. Beyond the crenelated ramparts the mountaintops shone, radiant and pristine with freshly fallen snow. He contemplated the delicate bar of chocolate and nibbled off the corner. It was a slow routine he engaged in anytime he was lucky enough to receive one of his chocolate deliveries. He'd steal away, take his time unsealing the fine wrapper, and then wave the bar gently under his nose, feeling himself begin to salivate from the sugary and nutty odor. Varric and another trader at Skyhold, Ofir, usually came through— although Varric's supplier had chocolate that was a tad purer; it contained less milk and sugar, which he favored slightly more. Only slightly. The bittersweet taste lingered on the tip of his tongue as the chocolate slowly dissolved in his mouth. He noticed his fingertips were coated lightly with it and knew he would be licking them clean when he was done, a punctuating gesture concluding his ritual — not one precious bit should be wasted.

He grunted with pleasure as he gingerly bit off another chunk. Just then, the tower door creaked.

"Hey chief," Krem's low voice echoed behind him.

He turned, furtively hiding the chocolate behind his back, a protective lover shielding his naked, vulnerable mistress.

"Been looking for you. Armory won't give Rocky the explosives; said you need to sign off. They're still mad about the avalanche on the southern pass…"

Krem had known Iron Bull long enough to recognize that suspicious, nonchalant look. He furrowed his brow. A streak of something brown edged the corner of his mouth. Krem pointed at it.

"You got something on your—"

"No, I don't," Bull said slowly.

 _Ah, shit._  Bull knew that smug grin.  _Let the busting of the chops begin._

"I knew you were up to something when you ran off all secretively like that!"

"I'm going to trust you to keep your mouth shut," Bull grumbled. "But only after you open it up to try some of this," he continued, breaking off a square and handing it almost reverentially to him.

"What's this?" Krem wondered, scrunching his nose. "It's not that Qunari dog crap rations stuff you've tried pushing on us before, is it? Because I don't—"

"Shut up and eat it," he ordered gruffly.

He watched, grimacing in frustration as Krem examined the square of perfection skeptically. He sniffed it tentatively and then ventured a tiny bite. The subsequent expression on Krem's face made him erupt in laughter. His eyes widened in delighted surprise and he quickly popped the entire thing in his mouth.

"I don't know if I like it yet. I need another piece to decide," he proposed, staring at Bull's chocolate bar covetously.

Bull clapped him affectionately on the back and then broke off half of the bar, handing it to his eager lieutenant.

"Here." He watched Krem lean back against the wall, chewing his piece with a contented look.

"This is good. Were you holding out on us, boss?"

 _Ah, yes. The others would want some too._  It was pointless now. Varric and Ofir were going to retire richly on their orders. Krem sighed, finally slowing down as he realized it was almost all gone. They remained in comfortable silence enjoying the last of their chocolate and gazing at the picturesque landscape.

"Sometimes I think this is even better than sex," Bull mused, licking his thumb.

Krem looked at him as if he had gone mad.

"What are you talking about? I don't see why you can't have them both, together," he stated with a shameless grin.

Bull burst out laughing again, punching him on the shoulder.

"Cremisius Aclassi, get back to work! Break's over."

Bull eyed Krem, who was sucking the final traces of chocolate off his fingers, with silent admiration as they sauntered down the stairwell.

_Shit! It's genius! Why didn't I think of that before?_


	4. The Wager

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Adan is the alchemist whom the Inquisition had working as an apothecary/healer. He's the grouchy, bearded guy you meet early on in Haven. Ava is an OC- studying to become an apothecary and a healer. Their backstory is woven into "A Matter of Consequence."

"Never compete with someone who has nothing to lose."

― Baltasar Gracián

* * *

"I'm sorry, Ava. This isn't working," Adan informed her, frustrated.

"You can't do this to me now!" Ava pleaded, clasping his arm. Before them, on the dispensary's table, lay piles of books and scrolls, parchment and a quill, and a foreboding list of topics for her upcoming apothecary's exam.

"This was a terrible idea," he complained, turning to face her.

She looked away sheepishly. It had begun innocently enough: every evening before bed he would go over her studies with her, asking questions on the texts she'd read. One night, after correctly reciting back a particularly complex formula, he'd swooped in and kissed her on the lips.

"A reward," he'd smiled playfully.

At first she'd only receive a kiss after answering more challenging questions properly. Then he began kissing her anytime she got a question right, regardless of level or difficulty. Studying had become a pretext for ulterior motives and would fall to the wayside after a few correct answers, usually to very easy questions, as they didn't want to waste any time on needless preambles to what had quickly degenerated into something much less academic and much more physical.

"But I do need your help…" she insisted.

"This has become a sham!" he scolded her. "You are one week away from taking the first exam towards your license and I'm not sure you know what you need to know!"

"You don't like helping me?" She made a moue, knowing he was right.

He looked at her helplessly. It had been his fault just as much as hers. He had no motivation whatsoever to ask her hard questions when she sat before him so tempting and irresistible—

"Right now I don't feel like I am helping you. I'm definitely  _enjoying_  it," he admitted, lowering his eyes guiltily, "but as to its pedagogical value…"

 _Now what?_  She felt disheartened.

"Let's do this in earnest," he suggested, taking a few minutes to browse through the list of topics her exam would encompass. "Ah, very good. Distillations and stoloniferous herbs…"

She thought he would begin to relent after a good half hour and gamely attempted to distract him, but nothing derailed him from his mission. She answered question after dry question with patient resignation.

 _Still_ ,  _I am not doing that badly_ , she realized, making note of the topics in which she would have to redouble her studying efforts.

"You are better off than I imagined," he conceded with evident relief.

She felt pleased with her efforts—it was a glowing feeling that he quashed with his subsequent comment.

"I never would have guessed before…" He rolled his eyes, seeking to irk her.

She sniffed.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

"Just…Well, for a time there I was concerned. If I wanted to receive a kiss from you, I couldn't ask you any of the more challenging questions—"

"Master Adan," she said in a chilling tone that immediately put him on his guard. "Perhaps I was encouraging you because, I, too, was eager to treat our study sessions as a subterfuge…but now I see I was sorely mistaken in allowing your delusions about my intelligence to—"

"It has nothing to do with your intelligence," he cautioned. "I was merely making a remark regarding your studying habits. I know you well," he continued, "and you were always one who enjoyed learning more through actively doing and witnessing practical applications rather than solely processing abstract ideas!"

"I'll have you know that I am a very determined person," she told him indignantly. "And when I want something, I work hard for it. I am going to attain my first tier license next week. You'll see."

He was taken aback by her response. He sat silently, contemplating his angry wife before pausing briefly and uttering his fighting words.

"Measurement systems," he demanded. "Give me the proper conversions, in Apothecary, Orlesian, and Avoirdupois systems for the following compounding formula…"

She seized her parchment and quill and began jotting down the rapidly issued quantities of ingredients, her mind ablaze with calculations and memorized equivalencies. After a few moments of scribbling, crossing out, and pondering her results, she handed him the sheet, watching his eyes slowly peruse her work. He inhaled deeply and dropped the sheet on the table.

"Perfect," he said proudly.

She crossed her arms, a triumphant smile on her face.

"Now I collect a reward," she declared.

He was about to protest when she reached across, tugging and undoing the sash around his waist. As it fell to the ground, he puzzled loudly.

"What are you doing?"

"For every answer I get right, I get to remove an article of clothing of yours…" she told him suggestively.

He opened his mouth but no sound came out, except for a faint "Oh."

He browsed through the list once more.

"Transdermal Bases," he announced. "And pain management…Give me the potential penetrative ability of ointments, from greatest to lowest, that use the following plants as their main ingredient…"

Her eyes narrowed. He was going for the hardest topics all of a sudden. She rattled off the order as best she could, basing her replies on educated guesses rather than memorized information. The contented side grin on his face told her she hadn't properly named them.

"Ah, so close…But you got three of the eleven wrong," he informed her.

She leaned back in her chair, abated. She'd have to study harder if she wanted to beat him. He leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers, his lips temptingly close. They locked gazes for a moment and she sensed  her disposition towards him thaw when suddenly he raised his hands to the top of her mage's robe, deftly plucking three buttons open.

"For every mistake you make, I get to remove an article of clothing of  _yours_ …" He sat back, staring at the newly plunging neckline he'd created for her with satisfaction. "I'm giving you a little leeway with that last question…"

"Oh? Ask away, then," she taunted him, sitting up in her chair, emphasizing her fresh décolletage. "I am going to have you down to your small clothes, you horrid man," she declared mischievously.

"And I am going to have you down to nothing, my dear, in exactly four questions…"

She felt a small shiver of pleasure course through her.

"Challenge accepted…But perhaps you should sit closer to the fire, since it is bound to get chillier for you…" she teased.

"The temperature in here is rising quite rapidly as it is…" he muttered slyly, flipping the sheet over with renewed determination.

She couldn't be happier.

It was a win-win situation.


	5. Beginnings

"Don't you know your queen?

Gleaming,

Wrapped in golden leaf.

Don't you know me?"

"Queen" ~ Perfume Genius

* * *

"The Marquise of the Dales!" the page announced as Briala stormed past the ornate doors into Celene's Grand Apartments.

She firmly grasped a copy of the ridiculous law that had been ratified that morning. As she marched into the salon facing the courtyard garden, she found Celene and her entourage. Ladies Colombe, Fleur, and Couteau hovered nearby while the Empress herself sat with a cup of tea between her hands. A young man with a powdered wig, half-face mask and a large mouche decorating his cheek, was deftly curling Celene's hair around papillotes. It was early evening and the servants had begun to make the rounds to light the various candelabras throughout the rooms. She had interrupted the young man mid story and he glared at her, unimpressed by her abrupt entrance.

"Celene, can you explain the meaning of this?" Briala asked angrily, tossing the sheets of parchment on the large round table hosting an ornate centerpiece of the most lush and sweetly fragrant flowers. Celene stared at the papers impassively.

"I don't see why you would object to a law that allows Orlais' elves to attend the theater," she noted calmly.

"You know as well as I do that this is pure chicanery!" She seized the papers off the table again, scanning them for a specific passage. "It states right here that elves may only attend a performance if escorted by a human patron," she fumed.

Celene blinked calmly.

"It's a beginning, Briala."

"They won't lack for escorts," the young man intruded. "Our Empress has made it very fashionable to attend the theater thus accompanied."

Briala narrowed her eyes in response to the malice in his comment. Before she could speak, Celene raised her hand to her hair, and plucking a handheld mirror off the table, contemplated his work.

"Thank you, Luc. We are done for tonight," she stated dismissively.

"Your Radiance," he bowed immediately. "It's actually 'Franck'…" he tried to amend, as the page began to usher him out of the room.

As the door clicked shut, Celene turned to her ladies-in-waiting.

"A bit parroty that one," she declared in a tone filled with censure. "My head is as full of his nonsense as it is of papillotes," she remarked, sipping from her cup.

"This is insulting. It is a mockery!" Briala protested.

"It doesn't apply to you," Celene pointed out. "You have a noble title."

Briala bristled.

"And how many elves in Orlais possess a title? This law is demeaning—it treats us as objects, as a fashionable accessory to be paraded about! Had I known the court would have seized so eagerly on what they witnessed… and warped it thus, I would never have allowed myself to be seen with—"

"Me? As my pet?" Celene asked accusingly. "Or as my fellow ally? Because I know what I meant when I extended you an invitation to accompany me. Regrettably, however, I do not have control over the eyes of the beholders."

Colombe, Couteau, and Fleur exchanged uneasy glances.

"This was penned by the Comte of Courtenay," Briala continued, persistently. "That you would even consider—"

"That the old coot who finds elves beneath him would be pressured by his fellows to draft such a thing? I find it refreshing and—"

"It's a crime. A perpetuation of the abuse suffered upon us. We are not baubles meant to be displayed for amusement."

"I imagine there will be nobles who will parade about with their latest conquests," Celene conceded. "I am not naive. But it is, as I said earlier, a start. If the good people of Orlais witness more and more elves in environments that had been exclusively limited to humans previously, it may not seem as such a novelty or a shock. That could possibly open the doors for further—"

"Abuse," Briala complained.

Celene finished her tea and placed the porcelain cup over the dainty saucer. The page returned to the room, taking up his station by the door.

"Inform Violette that I will be taking dinner in my quarters tonight." She cast a glance at Briala. "You will be joining me, Marquise?"

Briala faced the icy blue stare and could not discern whether it was an invitation or an order.

 _Did it matter?_  she thought crossly. Those days were over, long behind them now, she told herself defiantly.

"No," she stated. "I have some business to attend to before traveling to Val Royeaux tomorrow," she excused herself.

As she walked towards the door, she could feel Celene's gaze follow her. She made her way back to her own quarters, passing the obligatory string of obsequious servants and messengers, and the occasional unctuous noble. It was always awkward finding herself so many stations higher than the one she used to possess back in the days when she would slink in the shadows down very similar hallways. She appreciated the leverage her title afforded her, but she did not particularly care for its entrapments. She knew the artifices of The Game, but she had excelled at them from a different vantage point, reveling in her relative anonymity. Celene had always been the figurehead, and now Briala lamented being thrust into the limelight. She did, however, enjoy the power that had been openly conferred to her and watched, with satisfaction, as nobles who had once been openly hostile bit back their tongues and found themselves forced to address her with reserved politeness.

She fell tiredly into a soft, overstuffed chair. Celene had her rooms filled with flowers and ordered all the imposing, stuffy portraits removed from the chambers' walls, substituting them with bucolic landscapes, featuring rolling valleys and well ordered forests. The servants had already lit up the room, and she had dismissed the young woman sent to wait on her.

It hadn't been easy, she thought. She had no trouble wielding her power. Hadn't she participated in making decisions when they'd been together?

 _Participated? Or been manipulated?_ she thought tersely.

That law had driven her over the edge. It had taken all of the well-rehearsed restraint developed over her long career to keep her from adding words to the scorn that surfaced in her when applause rang forth and heads tilted and nodded at her, congratulatory, throughout the room that morning. They all thought she would find the law a triumph for her cause. Instead, she felt her innards shrivel from the shame.

 _No better than the kept, pampered pet Celene had once tried to make me into_.

She had willingly marched alongside the Empress, as her honored guest, foolishly hoping that the eyes that trailed them in their wake would see her as the force to be reckoned with that she had officially become. Instead, she had unwittingly started an ugly trend.

"Dressed so finely, elves can be quite bewitching, can't they?" she had caught the fleeting comment whispered from behind a fan.

She could only wonder how her people would be preyed upon because of her misjudgment. What a fanciful gesture, to parade one's elven lover so publicly and lavishly! It was the ultimate statement in status, wasn't it? No need to merely prowl into their bedrooms at night, force them to submit to their wills and desires in exchange for jobs, basic necessities, and in the most sinister cases their freedom…or even lives. No. Now their shame could be visible, displayed for all, bedecked in a few silks— _If it's good enough for the Empress, why not?_  Briala seethed.

A rap sounded from the concealed door by the fireplace.

 _Impeccable timing_ , she surmised, bracing herself for a second round of unpleasantries.

 _The one who knocks does not wait passively for permission,_  she observed, sitting up, as the wall panel sank backwards and then slid sideways, revealing an unfinished passageway.

Celene emerged silently into the room, the odious papillotes hanging in her hair, her elegant taffeta gown a rich tone of lavender against her snowy white skin.

"You are still angry," Celene concluded as she took in Briala's hostile posture.

Celene's footsteps bridged the distance between them. She paused beside her. In her hands she carried a large folio with her seal upon it.

"Here." She placed it in her lap, before wandering away to the large windows opening to the eastern gardens.

She leaned expectantly against the windowsill, mildly distracted by the birds outside, as they chirped their last songs, settling into the evening. Briala puzzled at the large folio, and had an urge to cast it off onto the ground in a display of her displeasure with Celene, but decided to leaf through its contents. Perhaps it was the spy in her, she remarked bitterly.

Celene observed cautiously, out of the corner of her eyes, as Briala browsed through the papers, her face first set in disdain. As her eyes ran down the pages, she watched the stern expression gradually soften. When they finally arose from the documents, they were bright with tears.

"Celene!" she exclaimed, her voice strangled with emotion.

"I let the Comte have his little victory today to pave the way for my triumph," Celene grinned, gazing into the dimming garden with unconcealed pride. Briala's hand shook slightly as she read over the documents again in disbelief.

In the folio was a royal decree opening the University of Orlais to elves. Any elf seeking instruction would have his or her education subsidized by the Empire.

"Did you see who has lent support to my decree?" she continued, delighting in Briala's reaction. Several nobles on the Council of Heralds had signed in symbolic approval. It had been noted that the Chantry also backed the decree. "The Marquis of Damas himself," she smiled. "I'd say he has a most vested interest. His sole heirs now, since Adrien died in combat, are two half elvish children— a boy and a girl— and he is quite eager to have them legally recognized so they can enjoy all privileges associated, including a proper education… Especially now that Gaspard's death and Florianne's arrest have most of the noble houses astir with the new possible successions. Several titles are in play. I am discovering that the Council has been quite amenable to my proposals these days…"

It was a royal decree. It was as good as done.

"Of course, we will have to keep a check on the Chantry. It is evident education is a part of its mission, but I doubt for a second it will waste such a rich opportunity to proselytize and cast its influence."

Briala was speechless.

"To integrate the advisory panels we extended an invitation to several Dalish elders," she explained. "But there was no interest," she lamented. "Still, we think things should be reasonably balanced out. Some of the elders in the alienage were affable to the idea... and definitely some elven mages, who I think are strategic, since they appear more neutral and removed from—"

She paused when she noticed Briala rise from her chair and approach her.

"I know we tried before and failed, but our alliances and the defeat of Gaspard have consolidated my power. I have fewer distractions and fewer influential enemies at home to contend with now. It is time—"

She was interrupted by a gentle touch on her cheek. For once, she fell silent. Briala's eyes spoke clearly. In them she saw fierce and raw hope.

"It is tremendous," Briala said softly. "Do you have any idea of what this means for us? To be offered the tools with which to shape our own destinies? To have an opportunity to learn, preserve, and share our knowledge? To have agency? Mobility?…" her voice faded.

Celene heaved a heavy sigh.

"It will not be easy, you know. We are up against very old prejudices and great ignorance. You and I may not live long enough to see the world we envisioned."

"But you will have paved the way, sown the seed," Briala whispered.

For a moment Briala saw it, breaking through the impassive, haughty facade— that delicate expression, a flicker of honesty and vulnerability. It was the same one she had revealed to her when they were still children.

"Do you like it?" Celene used to ask, a gift extended to her in the small hands, almost afraid, her fair lashes lowered.

That the child with the indomitable will was capable of such earnestness, such a deep desire to please— and to please  _her_ , among all people— always touched her profoundly. Briala inhaled her fine perfume, a floral scent, as fragrant as lilies, but not as cloying. The woman before her had always been an unwavering champion of the arts. At first, during more skeptical times, Briala had been utterly convinced it was because she had found in the arts an escape route—She believed Celene too willing to bury her nose in her prized books, of anesthetizing herself from realities by wandering through the elegant salons, museums, and art galleries, hiding in the glorious past and whimsical fictions. Celene had told her, many times, that there was nothing vaster than the imagination, that to nurture it was to become an architect of possibilities. Education was the transitional step that transformed the dreamer into the visionary.

She looked at the folio in mild disbelief, as if at any moment it were going to disappear, like in a cruel prank. There were many hurts to mend between them, but as her eyes wandered to the figure who stood in front of her, gazing at her expectantly, longingly, she realized that Celene was living proof of her own credo. She played The Game not only with a verve and steadiness that confounded and flummoxed her opponents and enemies, but with insight and creativity…and imagination. And now, she wished to nurture that ability to envision possibilities and create opportunities, make it a reality for those who had been forced into an immoral social and political exile. She reached out to hold the one she had embraced so often through her life, that woman who as a result of the scheming of others, but perhaps through the will of something greater than all of them, had played so many roles in her life: the constant companion of her girlhood, the consoling friend through times of defeat, an eager and sensual lover, and many times—so many times—the source of so much grief and heartache. And yet, she realized, their paths had intertwined too deeply over the course of their lives to be considered separate anymore.

 _For better or for worse_ , Briala acknowledged, a familiar shiver coursing up her spine as Celene's lips tenderly grazed her ear.

"Stay by my side," Celene urged her gently.  _Because there was scarce a time when you weren't, and those dark times I cannot or do not want to remember,_ Celene thought. "We will usher in a new era, together."

There were many replies Briala could have given her— some acerbic, caustic, witty, or cynical. But at that moment, she allowed herself to believe…and to imagine.

 _It is you, only you,_  Celene thought headily, her heart beating faster as she kissed the face she recognized through touch alone. The warm, slender body pressing against hers she knew as intimately as she knew her own.

_You were, are, always will be my friend, my home, my love._


	6. Spring

"Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be."  
― Shel Silverstein

* * *

"Ah!  _The Secret Language of Flowers_!" Dorian exclaimed with excessive enthusiasm.

A few heads turned to look at them, and Blackwall wasn't sure if it was because the mage was being loud or if they were all judging his literary selection.

"Quiet, please!" the head librarian called to them harshly.

"What was that?" Dorian asked her innocently, cupping his ear.

"I SAID—" the woman began again, louder, before realizing she had been had. Again.

She furrowed her wrinkled brow and cast them both a peeved look. Dorian chuckled quietly.

"Gets her every time. But deep down I know she enjoys my holding court here," he winked.

Blackwell felt trapped as Dorian blocked his way out. He was sure he'd appeased his curiosity earlier and had hoped to make a clean exit. Instead, Dorian had practically materialized out of nowhere at his side after he'd checked out the book, obnoxiously peering over his shoulder.

"I have to say, when you mentioned you were looking for books on historic battles and strategies, I thought maybe you would be analyzing and hatching some plan to beat Corypheus…"

Blackwell found himself tongue tied. It was pretty damning, he had to admit. What could he salvage at this point?

"But it's not just any plan, is it?" Dorian grinned winsomely, plucking the book out of his hands and leafing through the pages adorned with delicate floral illustrations. "It's a brilliant plan. Look: first we unleash an attack on Corypheus with 'Rashvine,' " he declared, clearing his throat before launching into a theatrical reading of the text. " 'When days of laughter galore/Are darkened by lovers' war/ Rashvine may help underscore/ What renders a heart so sore. To indicate disapproval and resentment with your beloved, Rashvine should be dried and given in a small bunch tied with brown ribbon.'" Dorian nodded knowingly before falling silent and perusing the book for more. "Oh! And look here: this should be quite poignant, once we are all standing around Corypheus' corpse: 'Freshly cut Andraste's Grace flowers—but only the  _white_  ones—'" he emphasized warningly, "'Sweet farewells filled with sorrow/If ne'er more we meet in the 'morrow/ Andraste's Grace offers solace from the flowerpot/ That you, dearest, must forget me not.'" He leaned against a bookshelf with a coy grin on his lips, hugging the book against his chest. "I never figured you could be so  _ironic_!" His eyes widened with delight, as he plopped the book back in his hands.

Blackwall felt completely self-conscious as he swung the leather tome beneath his arm.

"So who are we going a-courting?" Dorian wondered mischievously, dropping into the winged chair he'd substituted the hard, wooden carrel for in the small alcove. Along the shelves lining the walls, he'd arranged the books of interest to him independent of any cataloguing system. He operated his own ancillary library, and added and substituted books at will, much to the long-suffering librarian's chagrin. Blackwell took a steady breath.

"Nobody," he declared firmly.

Dorian blinked back, utterly unimpressed, the lie very clunky and obvious.

"Truly, Blackwell.  _The Language of Flowers_? In this day and age? There has to be a better way, man…"

He felt the blood rise to his cheeks. He was glad for his thick, black beard.

"Unless, of course, you are courting a Dowager?" he asked flippantly. "Although I am afraid to inform you that they don't make Dowagers like they used to. I told you I was goosed by an errant hand at the ball at the Winter Palace, didn't I?"

"You told everyone," Blackwall groaned. "It was, more than anything else that occurred there that night, the greatest outrage," he remarked with dry sarcasm.

"It was all bloodcurdling, I assure you. Especially the music and the decor…But I swear, after the deed, when I turned around, the Dowager was the only one standing across from me. I can hardly berate her on her excellent taste, but one must wonder how she remained so nimble at her advanced age…"

Dorian reached for a crystal decanter resting on a lower shelf along with two glasses.

"Can I interest you in some fine spirits?" he grinned amiably. He leaned forward, past Blackwell and shook the decanter in the librarian's direction. The woman huffed and looked away crossly. "I wonder why she never joins me…She could most definitely use a drink."

"I need to be going now," Blackwall declared gruffly.

"You know, I was only joking about the Dowager comment," Dorian continued, pouring himself half a glass of the tawny liquid. Blackwell nodded appreciatively. "But you know who would, quite literally, eat that all up?" he asked. Blackwell frowned. " A she-goat," he revealed conspiratorially.

"Right. That's my cue," Blackwell said irritably as Dorian burst into laughter. As he began to exit the library, he heard a sharp "Sssh!" uttered towards them.

"We were having an exciting academic debate, my good woman!" Dorian called out jovially, raising his glass at her. "How does one refer properly to a she-goat?" he wondered.

"You would call it a 'nanny,' " the librarian, finally baited, declared.

Blackwell had reached the steps outside when he heard Dorian's voice behind him.

"A nanny? Just as in the child's maid? Really? Ha! That explains ever so much about Fereldans, doesn't it? Especially the smell! The dog lords raised by she-goats…"

He skipped down the steps swiftly, crossing the main hall and down another doorway until he wandered into Skyhold's garden. He found it relatively empty at that time of the afternoon. A few people lingered, sharing conversation on the benches lining the heavy stone walls behind the many arches that ran along the open yard. A Chantry sister read peacefully and two elven children played an animated game of tag up and down one of the archways. A chill lingered in the air, but Elan Ve'mal's crew was at work in the garden and the sweet odor of freshly tilled earth rose to meet his nostrils. He searched the grounds for the familiar rusty-colored head of hair that dipped and wove through the bushes and brambles tending for trees and the many planters strategically placed throughout the courtyard. He found the herbologist friendly and professional. He had relied on her all winter to assist him with a secret undertaking. He reached for his coin purse, carefully tucked away inside his padded vest and discovered her crouching over a small plot of earth pinpointed with tiny dots of sprouting green buds. Upon sensing him standing over her, she lifted a grumpy face, her lips ready to utter a complaint, until she realized who it was.

"You got my note!" she exclaimed.

"Is it ready?"

She removed her heavy gloves and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead, glancing towards the small greenhouse.

"The buds just emerged," she informed him. "You can take a sprig today. Just place it in water and it should bloom beautifully over the next two days." She turned to her helpers. "Space the rows more evenly," she directed them. With a wave of her hand, she beckoned him to follow her. When they reached the greenhouse, she pushed into the door with her shoulder. "Needs repair," she apologized.

Inside the warm stuffy space pots of various sizes held plants of the most different kinds. Leafy stalks emerged forth in bursts of deep, succulent green, and dangling tendrils poured down from hanging planters. Graceful fronds fanned over their arms and legs as they delved deeper into the greenhouse. They were northern plants, from the more amenable Theodosian climates: the northern Free Marches, Antiva, Rivain, and even the Séheron.

"I wasn't sure it was going to make it, but it held in there. One of my assistants is a mage and he was able to stabilize the temperature in here with a clever spell," she explained. "Saved most of these plants, especially on those colder winter days," she remarked admiringly.

She guided him to a smaller flowerpot where a tall-stemmed plant rose above the others with tightly shut buds hanging from its spindly branches. He could glimpse the delicate shade of rose peering out from the nubbly dark green buds. The flowers would erupt in soft clouds of pink that cascaded down the branch charmingly.

 _Queen Asha's Buttons. A uniquely Antivan flower,_  he thought, pleased.

He observed as Elan cut a robust sprig for him. She placed it in a small clay container filled with water she scooped up from the improvised fish pond they had stationed inside the greenhouse to shelter the carp from the cold.

"Make sure you keep it in here until you are able to put it into a nicer vase," she instructed him. "Although you should use the same water. It'll be happier in murkier water, like in its natural habitat."

He was delighted with his fragile bounty and gladly left a glinting tower of coins on the greenhouse's workbench.

* * *

He was determined not to be caught until he was ready, and he wasn't ready yet. After examining the main hall for activity, he moved swiftly to Varric's table tucked at one of the sides of the hall's entrance. The dwarf was not there, but would be returning eventually, he concluded, since he'd left his quill and parchments scattered on the surface. With a glance around the hall, he sat himself down, carefully setting his sprig before him and laying the book on the table. He was quite sure the dwarf wouldn't object to his borrowing some of his writing utensils. Always keeping a cautious eye on the door leading to the War Room, he began to search the book.

"Queen Asha's Buttons," he whispered, perusing the pages. Upon finding the entry, he studied the different meanings: "The hope, joy, and beauty of spring."

He took the quill, inked the tip, and began to scratch the surface of the parchment.

_Dear Josephine,_

_I thought you would like these flowers from your native Antiva. I find them charming and beautiful as yourself—_

He tore and crumpled up the parchment, stuffing it into his pocket.

"Ridiculous," he grumbled, chastising himself.

He focused on the next sheet and began writing anew.

_My dearest Josephine,_

_In the words of the great poet: 'I want to do with you what spring does with the flowering trees.'_

He tilted his head pensively. It was an erudite message—a famous quote by a famous poet.

_Spring is filled with joy and life and I want to see her bloom with happiness and…_

Suddenly the interpretation of the poem became transparent to him. Perhaps it wasn't as innocent as he once thought it was…

_Well, not that I wouldn't like to caress that alluring, warm, sun-kissed skin, and savor those full, inviting lips…_

He shook himself out of his reverie.

_Send that and she'll think you are a pervert!_

He angrily crumpled the sheet again and reached for a new one.

_Hello Josephine,_

_I hope you like the flowers._

_Sincerely,_

_The imbecile!_

Ink splattered all over the parchment where he had begun stabbing it with the quill in great frustration.

"Trying your hand at a murder mystery?" the voice behind him mocked.

He turned embarrassedly to face Varric.

"I hope you don't mind. I had some urgent business to take care of," he muttered.

"I'm just glad I'm not the one receiving that missive…"

Blackwell hastily crushed the parchment, picked his book off the table and seized his sprig.

"You can finish, if you want," Varric called out. "But let me move out of the way. That was quite the performance!"

Blackwell marched off, his pocket stuffed with crumpled paper and his face stuck in a frown.

 _Keep it simple,_  he smirked to himself.  _So much for that._

"Is the Ambassador in?" he asked the sentinels guarding the door.

"No, she isn't. She is in a meeting across the hall."

"Good. I will only be a moment then. I have a delivery," he explained, holding the small container. The sentinels exchanged discreet, knowing glances before stepping aside. As the door shut firmly behind him, one leaned towards the other.

"Skyhold's florist…" the first guard whispered.

"Personal florist," the second corrected, amusedly, as they snickered briefly.

* * *

Evelyn Trevelyan paced before Josephine's table in deep thought.

"Wouldn't that just be throwing money at the problem, though? What they need is help clearing the damage and rebuilding infrastructure," she mused.

"That would be better," Josephine concurred. "But that's what the money was going to be for: to secure the muscle to clear the rubble, build the foundations…"

"I don't like the idea of taking out a loan for the reparations."

"It's the easiest solution, the terms would favor us, it would make creditors more willing to work with the Inquisition in the future, and I have no doubt about our ability to repay it—"

"Then let's save it for a circumstance where we find ourselves truly unable to offer more than financial assistance. Redcliffe is not that far away— we can send aid for rebuilding. We can spare Ovolir for a bit…"

"It might be a small blessing to see construction halted here for a little while," Josephine conceded.

The dwarven builder had secured the fortress, but never seemed to lack for projects. His scaffolds littered the halls and his latest push in advancing a proposal to update Skyhold's archaic plumbing systems was causing no small amount of alarm.

_Perhaps sending him off for a spell would be a welcome reprieve from the incessant hammering, shouting, and demolitions..._

"Very well, I'll let them know. Of course, it would sweeten the offer if you agreed to be present at any ceremonies to inaugurate the new structures…"

"Me…and a small retinue!" Evelyn protested. She didn't revel in the more social aspects of her station and Josephine knew that the comment meant she would have to go also.

"Excellent," she grinned, as she scribbled down a note reminding herself to pen the letter to the Arl before the courier left the next morning.

"These are different from your usual mountain flowers," Evelyn remarked, gingerly touching the flowering sprig. Josephine smiled proudly.

"Yes…They are flowers originally from Antiva: Queen Asha's Buttons. They flower at the beginning of spring…and their scent is divine," she remarked, gazing at the dainty flowers affectionately.

Evelyn arched an eyebrow.

"I knew your 'champion' took off searching for your flowers wherever they might be growing here…but you are telling me now the man trekked all the way to Antiva for these?…" she teased.

Josephine caressed the clay container.

"I do not know where he got them from, but I couldn't believe my eyes when I found them on my desk yesterday. Our garden was filled with these back in Antiva. It reminds me of home, of my childhood…"

"It's a very thoughtful gesture," Evelyn agreed, contemplating her ambassador, who appeared lost in pleasant thoughts all of a sudden.

 _Happy Spring_ , the simple, succinct note had stated.  _Hope abounds_ , it read.

"You know, I don't understand why you two don't—"

"Blackwall is a gallant man…no matter what name he chooses. Alas, there are too many differences between us in station." Josephine sighed. "It must be 'la splendeur des coeurs perdus.'"

Evelyn grimaced. The "splendor of lost hearts," that old-fashioned contrivance meant to idealize frustrated love because of petty social and heraldic conventions had come up again and again any time she broached the topic with Josephine.

"I suppose so," Evelyn shrugged. "I suppose those are the rules, aren't they?"

Josephine looked up warily. She recognized the tone of mischief in the Inquisitor's voice quite well.

"Who could ever imagine a reformed criminal and a noble ambassador together?" she wondered aloud. "Why, it sounds as nonsensical as…as having a mage head of the Inquisition!"

Josephine inhaled deeply.

"Or a Seeker allying with an apostate! Or a Qunari and a Tevinter fighting alongside each other!" she exclaimed amusedly, observing her. "Or an Orlesian empress having an elven consort! Shall I continue?"

Josephine tried to conceal a grin.

"Or a templar and a mage?..." she finally asked with playful coyness.

Evelyn laughed.

"Actually, that one is far more common than you'd imagine."

She leaned over Josephine's desk, looking into her light, hazel eyes.

"Change only happens if those wishing for it are bold enough to undertake it…"

Long after Josephine had penned her letter to the Arl, pledging aid from the Inquisition and promising that Evelyn would be there for any grand ceremonies, she remained at her desk, leaning back in her chair, staring at the lovely, unexpected and surprising flowers. Her eyes wandered to the note she had pulled out from her top drawer.

"Hope abounds."

She smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I stole and adapted Pablo Neruda's beautiful line from his poem "Every Day You Play" ("Juegas Todos los Días"): "I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees." ("Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.") Neruda has written some of the most breathtakingly gorgeous love poetry, ever. Thedas needs more poets who aren't just going on about the Canticle of Light... ;-)
> 
> Josephine's line about the splendor of lost hearts is straight from the game. Which I don't own, yes?


	7. Rain

"I don't know what to do about this any more

You know sometimes I forget I'm alive

And then it hits me in the night

When I realize it's

Too dark and it's too light

And it's too loud and it's too too bright

And it's too hard

Too long to be on your own."

"Let It Go" ~ Saint Saviour

* * *

 

The thin drizzle cast a grey pall throughout the garden, the moisture weeping down the arcade's stone arches. The mage sat uneasily, hugging her sides, as if to contain the sorrow from spilling out. No matter how much time had passed, regrets remained sharp, the mere difference between the onset of the pain and the current ache being the familiarity of it.

Fiona knew the Inquisitor had meant the gesture as a reassurance to her and the former rebel mages, but showing her that letter from King Alistair stirred a murky riverbed and now she was agitated, overwhelmed by all the debris that swirled up into her memory.

"He is not unreasonable," Evelyn had said earlier. "I believe his and Queen Anora's angry behavior towards the mages at Redcliffe was a hasty reaction to the circumstances."

The king was a grown man, but he had been but a little mewling bundle in her arms years ago. It was hard to believe.

And what had he said to her when he met her in Redcliffe?

 _So much frustration in his eyes and barely contained anger in his voice._  He said he'd wanted to help…but he couldn't. Not after her actions. He'd found it all a great betrayal.

 _Just how much of a betrayal would he find it, if only he knew the truth?…_ she sighed.

She had never intended for any of it.

Fiona had marveled at him, bewildered, many years ago.  _He is perfect_. She would never forget the tiny hands that grasped at her finger, the long-lashed eyes that blinked sleepily at her face, and pink lips that puckered and cooed at her breast. She had suppressed the waves of tenderness those moments had brought her. She had to. It was the only way she could possibly allow herself to place her infant son in his father's arms, severing her ties to him forevermore.

She had sallied many times against the inevitable in those early days, her mind plagued with worry and the impossibility of her circumstances.

 _Haven't I done the unimaginable before?_  she had concluded. Hadn't the Taint abandoned her, her lease on life renewed?

 _Yes_ , she had once thought defiantly, exhausted, and sleep-deprived, the baby in her folded arms finally at ease.  _I will raise him. My son._

Her gait had been less assured when she met Maric on that last night. She kept repeating her plan to herself, with urgency and a single-minded determination. She had found a brief respite, a semblance of happiness with Maric, and he with her, but a king and a mage did not have enough power between them to transform a broken reality, she had realized sadly. What transpired between them would have all been a mere dream-like memory, except that it had worked a magic of its own, in the shape of their child.

"What I want is for him to be human. I want him to be fully human and not in line for your throne, not competing with your other son and tied to this royal blood that has brought you nothing but grief. I want him to have a fresh start." That had been her final request from him.

 _It's for the best,_  she had whispered to her tiny son.  _What have I to give you, my little one? Nothing but a legacy of suffering and hatred and contempt. Find your own wings_ , had been her prayer.

"Will I see you again?," Maric had asked of her nevertheless, even as she retreated, fading from his life. Perhaps he sought to assuage her fears, but all she saw were his own.

"If the Maker wills it," she had replied, a trace of disappointment in her voice.  _Whatever that will may be; His and mine never seem to align._

 _For if they had,_ she told herself with quiet anger, peering into the desolate rainy garden, _Alistair would not be subject someday to the Calling. If they had, he wouldn't find his head burdened by the weight of the crown._

She had always wondered why Duncan had brought Alistair into the Grey Warden fold. Perhaps he believed that he, too, perhaps through his mother's blood, would somehow escape the Taint? On darker days she believed it was simply the collection of a debt.

She sat back and closed her eyes, the coolness of the morning oddly soothing to her feverish thoughts. Around her she could hear hushed voices in conversation and nearby prayers offered before the statue of Andraste in one of the alcoves off the arcade.

 _It's the Maker's will_ , her sarcasm vivid, as the chanting to Andraste grew louder and more grating on her nerves.

_Was it worth it? Any of it?_

Melancholy overcame her. The healing of the heart could not be counted among all her gifts and powers.

* * *

 

Cole peered over his shoulder, his field of vision narrowed by the brim of his wide hat.

 _They batter old bruises, thoughts that trap and seize her._ He watched the slender woman lean her back against the wall. He wished to go and comfort her, but he was careful in how he approached mages.

_They do not let me fade away as easily, I linger longer in their mind's eye._

And that wouldn't help her at all.

Just then the boy's hand tugged insistently at his shirt.

"I'm bored," the child complained. "Can we go now? There's nothing to do here."

"Do you see that lady over there?" Cole asked in a low, conspiratorial voice. The boy crinkled his nose and his eyes momentarily searched the arcade across their way. "Maybe she can do what we were trying to do," he continued.

The boy beamed an excited smile.

"Really?"

"I don't know!" Cole admitted. "You need to ask."

Cole watched as his little companion sauntered over to the mage, observing as he stood before her, staring at her stillness. She stirred, aware of his closeness all of a sudden, her light grey eyes taking in his form.

"Hello," he said with a calm confidence.

"Hello," she found herself replying.

"Can you lick your elbow?" he wondered, wriggling onto the bench, next to her.

"No," she offered a bit disconcertedly. "I don't think it is possible."

He nodded with a gloomy understanding.

"I know. I've been trying all morning."

He stared at her face again.

"Can you do this?" He stuck out his tongue rolled into itself from both sides and blew.

She tilted her head, amused by the boldness of the young, budding conversationalist. A twinkle of mischief surfaced in her eyes and she found herself slyly sticking her tongue out in a perfect roll. The boy grinned, very satisfied with what he witnessed.

"Not everyone can do that, did you know?" he revealed, delightedly. "My mother can't do it! She ends up spitting all over and getting very cross at me," he confided.

"Then your father must be able to do it; it is a hereditary skill, although I cannot imagine its purpose…" Fiona stated matter-of-factly.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Fiona," she replied, slightly mystified by the child's interest in her.

"Nice to meet you. My name is Kieran," he informed her with great ceremony. "What else can you do?" he continued, barely contained curiosity in his voice.

She chuckled, entertained by his innocent impertinence.

Cole waited for Kieran nearby, giving the pair as much time as they wanted, the boy and the woman exchanging stories and laughing together by the rainy garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fiona's dialogue line on wanting Alistair to be raised as a human child, Maric's question and her response are straight from David Gaider's novel The Calling. I haven't read the novel- just the passage that Google Books let me peek at. I didn't realize Alistair was really Fiona's son until after playing Inquisition, when I was intrigued by her interest in him. Suddenly that scene after the time-travel episode in Redcliffe became heartbreaking.


	8. New Territory (Part I)

**8\. New Territory (Part I)**

"Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks."  
― Samuel Johnson

* * *

Scout Harding surveyed the valley before her eyes. A breeze tickled the sheaves of kingstaff far below, creating the illusion of a sea of golden undulating waves. Harding squinted, her hand firmly planted as a visor over her eyes, attempting to make out the distance between the rocky cliff they stood on and the small clearing in the flowing valley below.

 _A little less than a mile_ , she guessed shrewdly. The surveyor would confirm it a day later. The spot was clear and above water. Its relative proximity to the road made it close enough to be practical, but sufficiently isolated to guarantee a modicum of discretion for the Inquisition's affairs in the area. She decided it would be a suitable location for a camp. Inquisition soldiers would follow in a day or so, guided by the cairns and other markers they had left along the paths they'd forged and she hoped to have staked out the area well enough to begin the building of an outpost of sorts: somewhere soldiers, agents, and travelers could find shelter.

Her party consisted of Barthes, Norsir, and Vartan, fellow Inquisition scouts, and a young private named Chauncey, whom Commander Cullen had foisted on them out of desperation. Apparently Chauncey had been responsible for a series of mishaps over the last few days, culminating in an accidental incendiary episode that resulted in the singeing of a few expensive and newly commissioned Inquisition banners. Commander Cullen had asked her to bring Chauncey along on their next scouting mission.

"It'll expand his horizons, help him understand the scope of his duty…" the Commander had added to his request, which had sounded more like an order.

Later on Norsir had laughed cynically when he learned what was happening.

"What he really meant is that it'll keep Struthers and Avery from expanding his other horizons, if you know what I mean…" the dwarf had cackled while pointing at his own rump.

Poor Chauncey had been stuck with Skyhold's cranky templars, taking his orders from the two gruff and impatient men. She had yet to meet a more discombobulated person than Chauncey. He was even worse than herself, she realized, making her own comical episodes of flustered babbling seem most eloquent by comparison.

"We should send him as a gift to Corypheus," Barthes had joked. "I heard he single-handedly demolished the armory in an afternoon."

_Ah, yes. The infamous armory incident._

The boy had stumbled into a room filled with equipment ready to be distributed among waiting troops. He'd clumsily crashed into some armor, which had been painstakingly organized and aligned so that the Quartermaster could easily hand out all the required equipment, knocking it down and starting a chain of collapse that ended up with the armorer having to hold back an incensed and infuriated Quartermaster from leaping rabidly onto the terrified and apologetic lad.

She stared into the valley and turned back to her party when she had decided on the next course of action.

"Barthes and Norsir: go down the cliff, claim the clearing and begin a perimeter check. Vartan, Chauncey and I will find another path down," she announced.

She could almost hear the duo's sigh of relief when they realized they'd be free of Chauncey for a few hours.

"Why don't you just hold on tight to me and we'll rappel down the cliff together?" Norsir teased her, knitting his brows.

They all knew Harding was frightened of heights. She shooed him away, skittishness in her eyes.

Barthes was perceptive and agile. He'd been raised among hunters and trackers in some forsaken corner of Ferelden, and his keen awareness of his surroundings made him her go-to anytime they established a camp in a new location. Norsir was a dwarf—a bit shorter than she, strong, muscular, and— she couldn't help her amusement— incredibly hairy. She sent him off with Barthes as he was not only fierce in battle, but also clever and resourceful. Vartan, her usual partner, was elven, from the alienage back in Denerim. Short, even for an elf, lean, wiry, and moody, he was quick and light on his feet, spoke several languages, and was also handy to have in a skirmish. She also found him helpful in the sense that he stayed out of her way anytime they worked together.

She was gregarious by nature- friendly and observant. But she had no problem keeping to herself—she had plenty to knock around in her noggin, she figured. It was one thing she was grateful for as she trekked and hiked through the wilds around her family's home in the Hinterlands: she had learned to become good company to herself. She found in the sprawling wilderness great peace in which to pursue her thoughts. She'd figured out a long time ago that Vartan was a poor conversationalist and he did not care enough to do anything about his predicament. Despite his wit and eloquence, something she had observed in action on a few occasions, and fluency in several languages, he'd usually follow her, silently, speaking only to offer a succinct observation about their surroundings: water, some wild animal's den or lair ahead, tracks or other disturbances on the trail. She'd long given up on him.

She had been ready to spend the next hour in contemplative silence, mulling over all the things she needed to do before the soldiers arrived the next day. At first it seemed like everything would follow that plan: she and Vartan had found an overgrown trail that led down a surprisingly well hewn path descending along the rock. Just as she went through her usual routine to calm her nerves and averted her gaze from the edge of the path, still above the tree line, Chauncey decided to share his innermost thoughts.

He whistled, impressed, leaning outwardly.

"That's a big fall, isn't it?" His thumb jutted and pointed towards the neat drop.

"Yes. Yes, it is," Harding offered politely but nervously.

"I think if a person were to fall off at this point, he or she would die!" he announced with conviction.

"Then don't fall off," Harding laughed uneasily.

For a few blessed moments, they proceeded in silence, Chauncey enrapt with the height of the fall below.

 _Commander Cullen_ , she thought with annoyance, _you owe me. BIG time._

To her enormous chagrin, Chauncey punctured the silence with further yammering.

"Is it true you are afraid of heights, Scout Harding?"

Perhaps the truth would set her free.

"Yes, Private. I am," she explained tersely.

As if on cue, Chauncey stumbled forward, almost falling flat over the rocky passageway. Harding held her breath.

"That was scary…" Chauncey offered, looking behind him while still walking forward.

"Watch where you're headed," Harding quipped tensely.

"But you shouldn't be so scared because, you know, dwarves are so much closer to the ground," he explained knowingly.

_Maker. I must have lit Andraste's pyre in another life. What else could I have done to deserve this?_

"Besides, I thought dwarves were comfortable with rocks."

"I'm afraid of heights, not rocks," Harding reminded him.

She heard Vartan's footsteps approach them.

"Doesn't the stone obey a dwarf's commands?" Chauncey continued, intrigued.

"Obviously not: you are still talking, pebbles-for-brains," Vartan finally spoke up behind her. "Now shut up before I personally assist your descent," he said irritably.

Chauncey did venture a furtive glance back, but whirled his head forward again when he saw the unsympathetic look on the elf's face. She remained in silence, startled that Vartan's temper had flared so quickly.

They continued their trek uneventfully, finally reaching tree level, where the path became less steep and large tree trunks flanked both sides of the trail.

"How are you doing, Scout Harding?" Chauncey called out to her.

"Fine," she told him. It wasn't a lie.

"Are you all better?"

"All better," she assured him.

"Do you know what I was always told about fears?" he continued.

"What's that?" she wondered, deciding to humor the boy since she no longer feared for her life.

He pointed at his head.

"They're all in here."

She heard Vartan snort in contempt.

"And you have to make it so there is no more room for them to stay."

She hesitated to ask the next question as Chauncey was becoming more excited by the second.

"And how do you do that?"

Vartan groaned.

"We play a game! " he said spritely, "And the loser has to perform a consequence."

"Let's bypass the game and just toss you over the edge," Vartan mumbled behind her.

"What's that, Scout Vartan?" Chauncey called out obliviously.

"Nothing!" Harding interrupted. "But perhaps we can skip the consequence since we need to focus on our descent."

Chauncey turned around, his eyes large and sad at her.

"Watch out!" both she and Vartan cried out in a panic as he almost lost his footing around a hairpin turn.

"How about this?" she offered, once she was able to finally let go of Chauncey's leg. "Instead of performing a consequence we get to…answer a nosy question?"

Chauncey began to cheer, apparently tickled by her solution while Vartan glared at her.

"I want no part of this," he grumbled.

The game itself was simple. It was a name game. They had to come up with the most names beginning with a certain letter until someone blanked out at his or her turn. They were going through all the women's names starting with an "R." She and Chauncey bounced back and forth to each other, running through an assortment of names: Rosalie, Riva, Rolanda…Until Chauncey scratched his head and admitted he couldn't come up with anymore.

"Oh, Scout Harding. You win this round. What would you ask me?"

"To shut up!" Vartan yelled out.

Harding smiled, ignoring him.

"Very well…What is…your favorite food?"

"Noooo!" Chauncey protested. "That's not a good nosy question!"

"Well, what would you have me ask?" she protested.

Chauncey grinned.

"Something more exciting…Like…" He pressed his lips together for a moment. "Like…'Who do you find the most fetching person at Skyhold?'"

Harding blushed. _Well, now…Foolishness._

"Go on! Ask me!" he encouraged.

 _Oh, what the heck._ The likelihood of her losing to the lad was slim.

"All right, Private. Who do you find the most comely at Skyhold?" she asked with resignation.

"Ambassador Montilyet!" he declared without skipping a beat.

Harding couldn't help giggling.

"The ambassador herself, huh? She _is_ lovely," she concurred.

"Isn't she?" he sighed. "She is real pretty and is always so well dressed."

"Indeed!"

"She has the prettiest little freckles on her face," he mused dreamily. "I saw her up close once, when I was helping with package delivery one day. She smiled at me— she has a nice smile, you know, and she didn't even get mad at me when I dropped all the packages I was carrying. I probably should have brought them in two trips, but Cook had just put out a freshly baked batch of honey bread and if I didn't get myself down to the kitchen fast enough, everything'd be all gone," he explained, peeved.

Harding was chuckling.

"Anyway, I think the Ambassador is the most gorgeous person in Skyhold. Maybe all of the world," he added.

"That's quite the declaration," Harding noted. "I suspect you find her more than comely!"

"Maybe…maybe…" he continued sadly. "But between us there can be nothing," he revealed dramatically. Harding had to work hard at not bursting out in laughter; the thought of the heroic Ambassador swept off her feet by the clumsy private was beyond hilarious to her. "It'll have to be _'lay splinter decor per doos'_ between us," he said wistfully.

Harding tilted her head quizzically, having no idea what the boy was carrying on about.

"That's Orlesian," he informed her, most pleased with his knowledge.

Vartan hissed.

"Ok!" he shouted, startling her. "Now let's do men's names with the letter…Y!"

Harding found herself struggling to conjure the names. _Yves, Yoachim, Yannick…_

"Give up?" Chauncey asked mischievously after she had remained in silence racking her brain for a name.

"Yvaim?" she tried, hesitatingly.

"I used that one earlier!" he chirped. "You lose!" he declared to the entire mountain. "My turn to ask!"

He turned around briefly to grin at her. He stopped in his tracks and as he did so, his eyes lingered over her face.

"Say, Scout Harding. You have freckles, too!" he remarked.

She blushed deep and hard. She felt a firm tap on her shoulder and turned to face Vartan, who was pointing to something encrusted in the stone wall along the trail.

"Veridium," he noted dryly.

She nodded hastily and noticed he furrowed his brow when he caught the flustered expression on her face.

"My turn!" Chauncey shouted, relishing his moment of victory over her. "So now you have to answer this: Who do YOU find the most fetching in Skyhold?"

She was quite certain she had turned a bright shade of crimson by then.

"Well, now…I haven't really given it much thought…" she lamely asserted.

"I bet it's Commander Cullen, am I right?" he egged her on. "All the women like him," he explained knowingly. "Right, Chauncey! See if you can manage to stay out of everyone's way now," he performed a hammy imitation of the Commander, botching the accent pitifully.

Harding burst out laughing at last, the sting on her cheeks still fresh. Chauncey laughed along with her, his eyes crinkling happily.

"Now you have to answer my question!" he continued eagerly. "Who do you find the most fetching!" he continued. He playfully stood straight and brushed off the front of his uniform. "It is me, isn't it?" he joked.

She grinned.

"Maybe someday, when you are fully grown into adulthood, Private," she kidded.

He pretended to be terribly deflated by her comment.

"So who is it?"

"I don't think that's an appropriate question," she began.

"You agreed to the terms of the game; it is only proper that you honor them. What kind of example do you wish to set?" Vartan stated in a cloyingly mocking tone.

 _Two against one,_ she thought crossly. What had possessed Vartan to partake in such nonsense?

"Fine! I think Lord Pavus is the handsomest man in Skyhold," she blurted out in one breath.

Both her companions erupted in protests of disbelief.

"The Tevinter?!"

"You can't be serious…"

She raised her hand commanding their attention.

"I find him quite fetching," she argued, somewhat incensed. "He is strong and fit and he is always groomed and dressed impeccably," she declared defiantly.

He also smelled good and she found him exceptionally charming. She always felt giddy anytime she saw him approach any encampments with the Inquisitor's party. He often flirted with her, complimenting her on her skills and observations, saying delightful nonsense such as "Must we always meet under such tragic circumstances, my dearest Scout Harding?" And once, at a particularly dismal forward camp in the Storm Coast, he had loudly declared to everyone, "The only things worth salvaging from this wretched place are my moustache and Scout Harding!"

"That is my answer and I do not intend to explain myself further!"

"I suppose one cannot justify such predilections, although they reveal puzzling curiosities about character," Vartan mumbled with derision.

"If you have such finer tastes, then, who do YOU find comely?" Harding brazenly asked him.

She watched the elf run his long fingers through his long, fine silvery hair before averting his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This clocked in at over 5000 words, so I thought I'd split it into a more digestible two parts. Is that cheating? I was never good at math...*Wanders off sheepishly*


	9. New Territory (Part II)

**9\. New Territory (Part II)**

* * *

Harding, Vartan, and Chauncey all remained in a sullen, awkward silence as they made their way down the remainder of the path.

Harding noticed that once they stepped into the valley, the trees did not grow beyond the trail.

 _Man-made_ , she realized, assessing the field before them.

At some point, someone had cleared out the area of trees, plowed the soil and planted crops there. They wandered across the field of kingstaff, which had overtaken the neglected land and grown wild and unruly. They forged through the golden reeds towards the clearing she had seen. In her mind she estimated the distances between various points so she could have the surveyor later measure them properly for the cartographer.

 _A possible veridium mine, structural work on the trail down the mountain, although it is in remarkably good condition given it had probably been abandoned for over a decade_ …she mentally noted.

Bathes and Norsir had left their bedrolls and tent packs behind in the clearing. She saw they had pointedly left them on a large and wide slate slab, which made her sigh.

"Great. I should have known the chances this clearing was freely available were slim."

"Why is that?" Chauncey wondered, examining the slab.

"There was once a house built over that slab," she explained. "The house might be gone…But do you see those markings on it?" She indicated a cross with several numbers and initials around it. "The legal owners of this land have not relinquished their rights."

"Then why haven't they built something out here?" Chauncey asked.

"I'm going to fetch water," Vartan announced, seizing the medium sized cast-iron pot. "I saw a brook about a mile west."

They continued setting up their modest camp while Vartan wandered off, disappearing into the rows of kingstaff.

"It is rather remote," she continued. "Maybe it had something to do with the war…or even the Blight years ago. Whatever reason, it still legally belongs to someone and until we can verify whether or not the owners are alive or still in valid possession of this land, we cannot set an outpost here without permission."

"So we get permission!" Chauncey suggested.

Harding smirked.

"Permission includes having to pay a hefty 'harboring of safe passage tax'," she revealed. "Something we try to avoid whenever possible."

Chauncey nodded, suddenly enlightened.

"Scout Harding, you are so clever. Clever…and so nice," he grinned goofily.

"Thank you, Private."

She shook her head quietly. Chauncey… He lacked a filter when it came to expressing his thoughts.

"We can camp here for the night…but we'll have to figure something out by morning. We could be in trouble if we lead a squad to this location."

"Who'd know?" he asked.

"Someone passing through…maybe a shepherd…It's unlikely, but it's been known to happen."

She sat back heavily after starting the campfire. A burst of orange light illuminated their faces in the dusk. The sky was clear that night, she noticed, peering into the heavens, and the first stars had begun to shine. It would be a crisp night, since it was still early spring, but she preferred to sleep outside, huddled in her bedroll, gazing at the constellations above. They had set up everything they could and now all they could do was wait for the others to return. She took advantage of the firelight to jot down some notes and map drawings.

In the nearby distance the reeds rustled heavily. Chauncey did a little frantic dance, scrambling for his sword and Harding rose calmly, deftly reaching for her trusty slingshot and pointing it towards the noise.

"Who comes?" she called out warningly, ready to launch a small rock at where the reeds swayed agitatedly.

Vartan's voice called out to them impatiently.

"It is I. The brook was farther than I thought," he complained. "Give me a hand, one of you," he asked, emerging from the curtain of kingstaff, the pot, filled with sloshing water swinging heavily on the handle between his weighed down hands.

She put her slingshot away and reached Vartan before Chauncey could, worrying that the lad was likely to spill the entire thing. Vartan unslung the canteens he'd taken to fill from over his shoulder and handed them to her. She gave one to Chauncey, and laid the others before their respective packs.

"I saw Barthes and Norsir at the brook. They are trying to catch some fish," he informed them, extending his palms towards the crackling fire.

"So it's jerky for dinner again," she huffed.

Vartan shrugged.

"They hadn't caught anything yet when I left."

"Do they ever? They're not heading back anytime soon."

She reached into her pack and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cheesecloth. She tore off the last of a brittle hunk of dark brown jerked meat, the scent of the sweet spices reaching her nose, and took a few uninspired bites.

"Ugh. I'm so tired all I want to do is go to sleep," she said.

She dragged her bedroll close to the fire and sat over it, suddenly feeling like she had the best job in the world despite all the aches over her body from the long march that day.

"You shouldn't go to bed on an empty stomach, Scout Harding!" Chauncey reprimanded her.

"You sound like my mother," Harding shook her head at him.

Vartan sat down not too far away and was digging through his satchel, distracted.

"Do you have anyone to care for you at Skyhold?" Chauncey asked blatantly.

Harding cast him a quizzical look.

"I take care of me."

"No, _noooo_ ," Chauncey disagreed in that slow drawl of his. "That's not what I meant. Do you have someone who cares, like a sweetheart—"

"Private, you are out of line," Vartan interrupted, his tone suddenly harsh. Harding turned her head to contemplate the stern expression.

"I- I meant no harm," Chauncey turned to look at both of them, panicked. "I'm real sorry Scout Harding," he offered contritely. "We were just having so much fun earlier and I think of you as my friend because you are so nice to me—"

"She is not your friend and your familiarity towards her is inappropriate. She is a higher rank than you and you answer to her," Vartan continued in a warning tone.

"Thank you, Scout Vartan," she said between her clenched teeth, "I appreciate your concern and the reminder to our young Private here, but I assure you I can handle the situation without any need of your interceding on my behalf."

_What had gotten into everybody?_

"Chauncey, go get some rest." She indicated the tent.

"Yes ma'am," he responded immediately. He hauled his pack and as he was ducking to slip into the tent, turned back to her with a conflicted expression. "I need to pee."

Harding saw Vartan drop his pack angrily.

"Go out about 100 feet from the camp and do your business," she stated. "Bears and other animals are attracted to the smell, so you don't want to lure anything close to us," she suggested, pointing towards the field. Chauncey looked out uneasily at the darkness ahead.

"Can I take a torch with me?" he asked tentatively.

"NO!" both she and Vartan yelled, visions of a kingstaff inferno crossing both their minds.

"Can I just dig a deep hole behind the tent and go there?" he asked timidly. "It's so dark…"

Vartan finally stood up and at the sight of him, so menacing, Chauncey leapt into the field without looking back.

She glared at Vartan back as he stood staring out into the night.

"You know, I've been doing this long enough and I don't need you to rescue me from a Private, of all things!" she told him accusingly.

He turned towards her, a bewildered look in his transparent eyes.

"I wasn't being gallant, Harding. I was reminding him of the protocol he was breaching."

Harding snorted.

"Yes, because we stand on rank and ceremony constantly!" she stated sarcastically.

"We may not, but we certainly know how," Vartan said. "And that's a lesson you should be imparting to your protégée. Instead, you were encouraging his inappropriate behavior—"

 _My protégée?_ she startled.

"Since when is he 'my' protégée?" she interrupted. "Shouldn't it be 'our' protégée? He is here with all of us, I thought. Or is he under my wing exclusively because I am the woman in the group and such instincts are assumed to be native to ALL women?" she challenged him.

"No!" he waved his hands, flustered. "I said as much simply because among us, you are the only one who isn't ready to wring the lad's neck! It has nothing to do with your being a woman!"

"And before you go off lecturing me on how I should conduct myself, I'd like to add that while the game we were playing during our descent may have been inappropriate, you were most eager to add to the harassment of a colleague," she stated. "You are not beyond reproach, sir!"

He was poised to respond to her accusations but instead merely shrugged again and glanced away.

Moments later, a chilling scream echoed from the field. In a matter of seconds, both she and Vartan were rapidly coursing through the kingstaff, daggers drawn and slingshot in hand towards the direction of the commotion. There was just enough light for them to see Chauncey hugging himself and whimpering.

"Private!" Harding called out with concern.

"Some-something brushed by my leg. It was horrible!"

Vartan tossed his arms into the air and turned around tiredly. Harding grimaced at him and directed her attention to the frightened Chauncey.

"Did you see what it was?"

"No! But it was hairy."

"Probably a bush rat," she told him reassuringly. Whatever it was had been small, for the kingstaff hadn't been trampled beyond where they had walked through.

"It was terrible," he reiterated.

"I am sure," she agreed, beckoning him towards the camp. "It can be unsettling, but we are in the wilderness, sharing our territory with the many animals who live here."

He began to follow her out, shaking his head.

"I don't think I am cut out for this, Scout Harding," he confided.

She could sense a sadness weighing on the boy.

_Another failure._

"Well, that narrows down your choices. Perhaps you are getting closer to the right one," she told him kindly.

He raised his head at her and gave her a forced smile.

"I don't seem to fit anywhere," he mumbled. "Nobody wants to work with me."

"Now, Private…You will find something," she told him. "I am sure of it. Everyone has a purpose."

"What if I can't find mine?" he asked morosely.

"Then you create it," she grinned, remembering the day she came across Scout Sleiter in the Hinterlands.

She could never have imagined, when she set out with her mabari Contessa and the Rollins' herd of sheep that morning, that by the end of the day she would have found her purpose. She bid the lad a good night and watched him disappear into the tent. Vartan poked at the fire with a stick, in a sulky silence, as usual. She paid him little regard, still annoyed at his behavior, and removed her boots, tugging at her woolly socks. As she glanced up, she noticed the elf staring at her.

"Something on your mind?" she said curtly, brushing off the dust powdering her boots.

"I'd like to apologize," he said quietly.

_Well, now! That was unexpected._

"It was wrong of me to encourage indiscretion," he continued.

 _That's more like it_ , she thought with satisfaction.

"Thank you," she acknowledged. "I appreciate it."

"I'll try to be more patient with the boy."

"That would be helpful," she replied in a low voice. "I know he seems a bit daft, but—"

"It's not that," Vartan offered hesitatingly.

Harding furrowed her brow.

"I don't understand."

Vartan sighed.

"It's not important," he stated dismissively.

"No…Now I want to know," she demanded.

He looked as if she had cornered him into a hard place and peered down, collecting his thoughts.

"I think I was acting so impatiently with him because…" his voice trailed off and he struggled to find the right words.

He ran his fingers through his hair in a familiar nervous gesture again. A silver earcuff glinted in the firelight. "Fool that he is, he somehow managed, in only one day, to get you to laugh and disclose more about yourself than I ever could in all these months scouting through Ferelden and Orlais."

Harding laughed, amused.

"Oh, come on! How is the fact that I find Lord Pavus charming of ANY possible interest!"

"It is to me," he stated simply, a serene expression in his eyes as he contemplated her face.

 _My, my!_ Harding felt the blood rise to her cheeks. _That was even more unexpected!_

"Well," she managed to say, "If there is anything you'd like to know, all you have to do is ask."

He smiled at her, a warm smile she immediately decided she liked and wanted to see more of.

"That's all?" he asked, playfully. "I see. So…I have a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"Hypothetically speaking: Do you think a dwarf could ever fall for an elf?" he wondered.

She commanded herself not to show how flustered she was becoming.

"I…Well…It would depend…Um… on the dwarf, I suppose…" she stammered.

"The comeliest one in Skyhold," he added, edging closer to her.

 _My, my,_ _**my** _ _!_

"I see!" was her most nervous and uncouth reply.

That close up he seemed quite different, she found, giddily. How had she missed how attractive he actually was?

"Do you know who I find the most lovely and alluring, Scout Harding?" he murmured gently, starting to lean in towards her, his languid gaze affixed on her lips.

A rustling from the tent's entrance gave them pause. Chauncey's sleepy face emerged and stared back at them curiously.

"Ooh! Are you playing the question game? Can I play?" he asked.

"Go back to bed!" they both shouted so loudly, it reverberated throughout the valley.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: These chapters are for Эlиs, who early on requested that I write a story for Scout Harding. Among other talents and a refined taste in fan fic, Эlиs also translates stories into Russian. Long story short? 69 Love Stories has two chapters translated into Russian so far and can be read at ficbook dot net /readfic/3079253 (eliminate spaces, natch). I don't speak Russian, but it is pretty awesome to see my writing in another language. Even more fun is trying to decode readers' comments through Google Translator... Thanks- or pasibki! ;-)-Эlиs, for both the prompt and taking interest in translating this fic!
> 
> Oh, and Chauncey is a character from "A Matter of Consequence." I just love his bumbling bubbly self too much to leave him alone. No need to be familiar with the fic to enjoy this, but in case you wanted a bit more of this doofus, that's where he made his debut.


	10. Audeamus (Part I)

"Beat me at my own damn game

Fucking with my goddamn brain

Now I will never win again

Better to love than to have and to hold."

"Deep Green" ~ Marika Hackman

* * *

It had started thus:

They had been waiting for Solas to activate one of those odd elven artifacts they kept encountering after a nasty clash with Venatori operatives. Dorian had been in a foul, foul mood, feeling particularly upset about Tevinter, its politics, and how out of control the Venatori had become. During combat he had not held back. The raging fire he'd cast over their opponents, charring them to a morbid crisp, still smoldered inside the cave they had rushed into. Afterwards he had overheard Blackwall complain about his beard getting singed.

"Of all the affronts to decency and coiffure, my modest burning of your unruly beard can hardly be considered a crime," Dorian stated, his hand still clenched tightly around his staff even after the battle.

"Stand guard while we set up the wards. We'll head back once we're done," Evelyn announced as she and Solas climbed down a rickety ladder into a crudely dug out shaft beneath the cave.

They'd watched as Evelyn and Solas reached the bottom, the torch of ghostly veilfire fading from their view as the two below turned a corner.

"I need some air," Bull exhaled, wandering to the cavern's entrance.

Dorian followed soon after, growing annoyed at Blackwall's passive-aggressive beard rubbing. He remained at a slight distance, his eyes casually drifting to the muscular Qunari stretching out his stiff muscles, filling his chest with air. After a bit, Bull realized he was not alone and met his gaze.

"Quite the stink eye you've got going, Dorian," the Qunari told him.

He glared, his anger still burning within, a restlessness and dissatisfaction he could not explain even to himself surfacing.

"You stand there, flexing your muscles, huffing like some beast of burden, with no thought save conquest!"

Far from being stung by Dorian's words, Bull simply crossed his large, strong arms across his strapping chest with a provocative half smile.

"That's right. These big muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip. I'd pin you down, and as you gripped my horns, I would conquer you."

_Completely off guard._

"Um... what?"

"Oh. Is that not where we're going?" Bull retorted with a mix of surprise and… _was it disappointment? Sheepishness? More mockery?_  Dorian couldn't tell. And that annoyed him even further.

"No. It was very much not," the mage huffed.

 _Ridiculous_! he thought, forcing himself to avert his eyes from the heaving chest whittled in scars.

A loud burst from underneath the cave shook the ground.

"Spiders!" echoed the warning.

Blackwall immediately gripped the ladder and slid down into the dark shaft.

"What is he doing? Dorian growled. "There is no light down there!"

He ran towards the opening to follow him. If he didn't incinerate something right then, if he did not find any release for his tension, he was quite sure he was going to lose his mind.

* * *

Back at Skyhold a couple days later he had engaged in the usual theatrics he performed to preserve his reputation as a sophisticated connoisseur of finer things. An agreement between himself and the bartender Cabot, sealed with a few well spent coins for his silence on the matter, ensured that anytime he ordered "the usual," a tankard of nondescript ale would be placed on the bar with no further announcement or information. The nondescript ale was, of course, Fereldan beer, something he went to great pains to conceal from his companions. The fact most of them, even Varric, would not touch the stuff except under great duress, made him very self conscious of his predilections.

But he liked the bitter, hops-filled flavor, savoring every sip, licking the foam off his lips blissfully.

The first tankard went down smoothly.

"Only the good stuff, isn't that so?" Varric had remarked, watching the expression of contentment cross his face as he set the empty tankard down with a heavy thunk. "Heard you pay some pretty coin to get your Tevinter ale," he continued. Dorian smiled inwardly. He'd have to reward Cabot for that one. "I could see if my contacts could get you a better deal. Trade with Tevinter isn't really sanctioned, but it all depends on who's doing the trading, you know…" Varric offered, in a low voice.

"I'll keep it in mind," he said flippantly, pointing at his empty tankard while seeking to catch Cabot's attention behind the bar.

_Our little secret._

_One of the many I've had to keep about myself during the course of my life, isn't it?_ Dorian thought dourly.

The second tankard went down quickly. Varric and Blackwall glanced over with mild interest as he slammed the tankard down again.

 _I wonder if it would be this complicated to be myself if I weren't the heir of the great august House Pavus,_ he wondered bitterly. He pointed at his empty tankard again. The third order arrived at their table promptly.

 _I wonder if it would be this complicated to be myself if I weren't Tevinter. Perhaps I'd be better off if I'd been born Fereldan, in some rustic backwater, living happily with some illiterate, but charming, and definitely virile, shepherd, both of us as ungroomed as druffalos and perhaps just as odorous…but it wouldn't matter, because we'd be wildly in love,_ he thought with bitter sarcasm, pounding down the tankard.  _What good is all this rank, all this privilege? Has it truly made me any happier?_  Another tankard. He pointed at the empty one with singular determination.

The ales were going down quickly, and by the fifth, Varric and Blackwall were staring at him with concern.

"You might want to slow down there," Varric suggested.

 _I wonder,_ he thought, the room beginning to sway, _if it would be this complicated to be myself…if I weren't myself._

_All these lies, all these ruses. Look at me! I'm your Tevinter ally! I reject Tevinter's ways…But have I only gotten this far because Tevinter rejected ME, first?_

"You're not looking so good, Sparkler," Varric offered warily.

Dorian woozily stared past their heads, to the back of the inn, where he saw Bull bid his crew a good night and head for the door.

 _I would conquer you,_ he recalled, remembering the slightest hint of a rasp in Bull's voice as he uttered the words to him.

Dorian threw his head back and laughed heartily, startling Varric and Blackwall once more. He leaned in towards them and beckoned them closer. As they huddled nearer, Dorian pointed at them, his eyes blinking slowly.

"I'd like to see that happen. Because if anyone is the conqueror, if anyone gets to claim victory and walk away with the spoils, unscathed, it is I," he asserted meaningfully, in a drunken drawl. Blackwall nodded appeasingly and glanced at Varric out of the corner of his eyes.

"Right. I'm cutting you off," Varric waved to the bar.

* * *

The first time had been an honest to goodness mistake. Or so he kept telling himself. He was, he reasoned afterwards, very, very drunk. It didn't matter that he remembered wandering down the wrong hallway, his fingers trailing lazily along the stone walls, and being fully aware that he was nowhere near his quarters. It didn't matter that he had paused and hesitated for a moment to catch his breath before daringly turning the knob and flinging the door into Bull's room wide open.

Dorian found him standing before a dresser, his back turned to him, shirtless, in those ridiculous striped pantaloons he tended to wear.

"Shit, Dorian! You surprised me!" Bull turned, peeved.

"Your door," Dorian said haughtily while stumbling sideways, "is unlocked. Did you know that?"

"I appreciate the safety tip," Bull muttered, observing the mage. "Say, you wouldn't happen to be drunk off your ass right now, would you?"

"What about my ass?" Dorian teased. Bull rolled his eye. "What? You were the one who brought it up."

"Hmm... Right now? I'd like to kick it. Most definitely."

"I'd like to see you try," Dorian staggered backwards, barely catching his balance."Go ahead!" he challenged him, an unruly spark in his eye. "You're all noise and no action."

Bull sighed, dropping his hands by his sides.

"Come on, let's get you back to your room," he muttered.

He swayed to and fro where he stood, staring at the Qunari.

"Not yet," he said quietly, his head suddenly reeling. "Not yet."

_I don't want to be alone._

Bull examined his face and nodded.

"Sit down. I'll get you some water."

He glanced around the sparse room. There was nothing except for the bed, the dresser and a few chests lined against one of the walls. He watched Bull step out into the hallway as he allowed himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Kaffas," he whispered to himself in Tevene, rubbing his hands over his head. He collapsed onto the cover, tossing his arm over his head.

He lost track of how long Bull had been away, but startled when he felt something cold against his cheek. Bull stood over him, a cup filled with water meeting his eyes as he turned his head. He dragged himself up into a sitting position and began to sip the water.

"Thank you," he managed to say, between gulps.

Bull remained silent, contemplating him as he drank slowly, draining the cup.

"What I'd like to know is how is it that you get blitzed on crappy Fereldan beer and then end up here, of all places?" Bull asked pointedly.

Dorian almost spat out the water.

"What makes you think it's Fereldan beer?" he retorted, trying to mask his panic with outrage.

"Ben-Hassrath." He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, emphasizing his bulging muscles. "Plus, you reek of the stuff. Better not snap your fingers or you might combust," he joked.

Dorian immediately turned his head towards his shoulder and sniffed.

"I reek?" he asked, horrified.

"Like a dwarven brewer," Bull confirmed.

Dorian could barely conceal his expression of disgust.

"This won't do," he complained. "This won't do at all. I need to…air these out," he continued, restlessly, finally standing up.

"Whoa—what do you think you are doing?"

Bull watched him frantically pull his shirt off, dropping it onto the ground. Dorian examined the Qunari's face to see if his little ruse had achieved the desired effect. He could see Bull taking in his strong, chiseled physique and felt triumphant.

 _Who is conquering whom?_ he thought cockily.

He met the Qunari's gaze, a solitary light grey eye peering at him. He held it, unflinching, taking in his rugged face, the lined complexion, marred by scars, high cheekbones and cracked lips. And those horns. Maker, those horns… straight out of a cautionary fairytale from his childhood.

"I have the feeling you might be more sober than you let on," Bull began, an amused tone in his voice. "But…whatever you need to tell yourself to justify being here."

Dorian blinked slowly.

"So you want to ride The Iron Bull," he teased, approaching the mage.

He'd stood before Bull so many times before, he thought, keenly aware of his imposing physical presence.

"I'll admit to a mild curiosity. I'm usually a trendsetter, but in this case, it seems all the novelty is gone, since all of Skyhold has beaten me to it…" he said provocatively, watching Bull begin unfastening the large leather belt he wore.

"I guess I'm curious, too. I've never done it with a mage." He dropped the belt to his side, never withdrawing his gaze from Dorian's face.

"Oh, it's good fun—there are fireworks at the end," Dorian teased. Bull raised his eyebrows. "I mean that quite literally."

"Just make sure you steer clear of the horns. I wouldn't want to impale you…or rather, I would…but just not with these," he continued, pointing at the formidable horns jutting from the sides of his head.

"Come again?" Dorian asked in disbelief.

"I haven't… Not yet…" His lips curled up into a grin before he reached across and pulled Dorian closer.

* * *

When Dorian's eyes shot open, he found his mouth dry and his head fuzzy. The room was still cast in early morning grey. Beside him, breathing deeply and soundly, lay the hulking shape of Bull. Dorian inhaled and swung his legs over the side of the bed, trying to locate his scattered clothing. He had to rush away from there before he was seen. He rose, the chill of the air hitting his naked skin. For a short moment, he stood quietly, contemplating the Qunari sleeping so peacefully. The previous evening had definitely been strange, Dorian thought; their need for each other had been urgent, raw, almost primal. At times it had been awkward, even clumsy, as they moved about each other unfamiliarly, but it only heightened their intensity as they sought release.

 _Ah, but I needed that_ , he concluded, stretching.

 _Dear mother,_ he thought amusedly, as he collected his clothes,  _I prefer to bed men, I am currently allied with the Inquisition, and I refuse to spoon soup away from myself, as is expected, and spoon it towards me, which is perhaps your most regrettable failure in raising me, but I wish to let you know that now you can add the final insult to this list of disappointments: I've slept with the enemy. I trust you will be informing me about the many, many ways in which I've been disowned._

He smirked derisively as he finished dressing himself. He debated whether or not he should wake Bull up or just leave him be. That was the awkward part. The goodbyes after the deed. An awkward conversation normally preceded those and usually consisted of his dashing any expectations, any hopes of promises or commitments. He hoped his rapport with the Qunari wouldn't change after that. He doubted he needed to worry about it, though. He was certain Bull wouldn't have misunderstood what the evening had meant: it was just a one-time thing, an escape, a moment. That was all.

As he picked up his boots and tiptoed towards the door, he heard Bull's voice.

"See you around, Dorian," he said, with a small wave, before sprawling over the newly freed-up bed.

_See you around._

_See. You. Around._

Dorian had mulled those words over and over again in his head since departing from Bull's room. Not so much the words, but the tone. How had it sounded? He hadn't perceived any sadness, or longing…Resignation? No. Not that, either.

And that was the problem.

Anything else, he would have understood: anger, frustration, desire, hopefulness, and so forth. But Bull's reaction? He had waved, right? The wave had been a friendly gesture. Or perhaps he was reading too much into it? But the tone…He gripped his head.

_Relief or indifference?_

Meeting Bull later on for a debriefing meeting at the War Table did not help, either. The Qunari acted in an infuriatingly normal way— no winks, no meaningful smiles. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever to indicate, Dorian surmised, that in the night before they'd had a most torrid tryst. Bull hadn't been cool or withdrawn, either. Even that would have been an expected reaction. A regrettable one, but a familiar one, nonetheless. It was the same disorienting feeling he'd experienced when he emerged from the time portal with Evelyn and gazed upon Leliana afterwards. He'd initially felt a surge of relief, of gratitude towards the spy who had rushed into battle for their sakes, buying them every minute they needed to right the world again, and who'd died gruesomely before their eyes. But the woman they'd found back in their timeline had known none of that, hadn't done anything of the sort for him, he'd realized, marveling at the loop of confusion his brain found itself in.

But that wasn't the case here, he told himself, stealing a glimpse of Bull. He appeared to be listening to Cullen intently as he babbled on about something or other and placed flags over Maker knew where on the map.

 _It will have to do, right?_  He should be grateful for the lack of entanglements.  _It really is the ideal situation,_  he told himself.

At one point of the meeting, he crossed his arms exasperatedly.

 _At least something, some form of acknowledgement! Out of…courtesy, even!_ he thought indignantly.

Their night together didn't have to mean  _everything_ , but it should have meant at least  _something_!

He was snappy and cross after the meeting, storming off before the others could catch up with him.

He could have left it at that.

He could have, he told himself when he found himself before Bull's door again a second night.

But he didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I read that Tevinter is somewhat based on the Roman Empire and Tevene has much in common with Latin. Hence, the Latin title here. The dialogue about the stink eye is straight from the game, as is the fact Dorian claims he is drunk the first time he and Bull hook up. Just as I was about to post this chapter, I saw a pm from RyderofClouds over on FanFiction asking me to write a Bull/Dorian fic. Synchronicity! Thanks for the telepathic prompt! These chapters are also for Jane Beyre, who asked for a Dorian-centered fic. Her own rendering of Dorian is so wonderfully witty and saucy, he feels like canon. Part II has already been written and will be up soon...


	11. Audeamus (Part II)

11\. Audeamus (Part II)

"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."  
― Federico García Lorca

* * *

"Look at this! Anyone could just freely wander in here," Dorian announced to Bull in a tone of censure as he burst into the room.

Bull peered up hazily from his bed, where he had drifted off into sleep, still dressed.

"Yes. You make a good point. But it has never been a problem until now," he mumbled.

"I could have come here with a nefarious purpose," Dorian continued, approaching the bed, watching Bull's large hand splayed tantalizingly over his rippled stomach.

"I like to think it helps keep me on my guard... Keeps my skills sharp," he stated, propping a pillow behind his head.

They remained in an awkward silence.

"Love what you've done with the place. Very alienage-chic, I have to say," Dorian muttered, glancing around the room.

Bull chuckled— a low, knowing sound that caused him to bristle.

"Listen, Vint, did you come here to decorate my room or to fuck? Because we sure as the Fade aren't doing both."

Dorian recoiled at his words.

"No need to be so crass," he said, offended.

He was of a good mind to turn on his heels and go, but he found himself unable to move. What was he doing? Waiting? Hoping? They remained in that odd little impasse for a few moments longer.

 _This was a mistake_ , Dorian thought, his mind clouding.

"I'll show myself out," he said, finally moving towards the door.

Before he could make sense of what was happening, he felt a pair of firm hands seize him by the shoulders and drag him back to the bed. The room flipped as his body was turned and he was tossed on his back over the covers. Bull gripped his wrists tightly and held them down.

"I think we both know you're not leaving this room yet," he stated suggestively, leaning in, his breath warm on his cheek. His tone became gentler as he spoke closer to his ear. "Damn it, Dorian. Why can't you just say what you really want?"

Dorian turned his head away, silent.

 _This isn't playing out the way I expected_ , he sulked.  _I'm the one supposed to be calling the shots here, not you, you big lug. You were the one supposed to come to me afterwards, not the other way around_ , he thought crossly.

"I see," Bull finally said.

He released Dorian's wrists and turned away from him, moving towards the dresser. For a sinking moment he thought that was it. He heard Bull riffle through one of the drawers and then return to his side, taking in his serious expression. Without further warning, he once again grasped his wrists, this time bringing them together over his head, and expertly tied them to each other with a thin sash.

"What are you—"

"Sssh," Bull appeased him, tying the other end of the sash to one of the bedposts. "If you won't tell me, then I'll make you tell me," he said. He leaned in again. "Here is how it goes: anytime you need to stop whatever we are doing, just say…Um…" he appraised the mage in deep thought.

"I'm waiting," he said impatiently.

"Peacock!" Bull exclaimed. "That's a good one."

"So if I say 'Peacock,' you will be obliged to stop."

"Always."

"I see," Dorian nodded. "Peacock!" he shouted.

Bull tilted his head.

"Really? But we didn't even get started…"

He sounded so comically disappointed that Dorian almost cracked a smile. Bull shrugged and began to tug at the sash gloomily.

 _You keep trying to make away with my excuses, but I feel rather defenseless without them_ , he thought, watching Bull in stern concentration as he worked on undoing a knot.

"Hang on, I'm having a little trouble," Bull apologized.

Dorian sighed with exasperation.

"Well, as long as we're here…"

Bull halted and gave him a sideways glance.

"See? That's  _exactly_  what we need to work on. You shouldn't say 'Peacock' unless you really mean it. That's not something I mess around with. I'd never—"

"Fine," Dorian admitted guiltily. "But you should know that this isn't easy for me."

"I know," Bull nodded. "Believe me. I do." They stared at each other lustily. "It's hard," he said.

"Yes," Dorian retorted. "I think I find it difficult because—"

"No, I'm talking about something else," he interrupted huskily, glancing down at himself.

Dorian's eyes widened and he felt the blood thrum in his ears; he couldn't discern whether the excitement coursing through him came from desire... or a twinge of fear.

Perhaps both.

* * *

They both lay side by side, panting, exhausted. Bull grunted, pleased.

"That was…really, really,  _really_  good."

Dorian caught his breath and turned his head towards him.

"I should go," he finally said.

Bull brushed a lock of hair off Dorian's sweaty forehead.

"Why don't you stay? We can grab some breakfast later on," he said simply, yawning tiredly.

_Just like that. No complicity with any secrecy._

_Might as well,_  Dorian told himself, agreeing to stay longer.  _Since this is the last time and all. Best to end it on a positive note._

_It is a good plan._

_Absolutely._

He was willing to stick to it, too, and became quite convinced he would succeed. Except, when night time arrived, he felt himself pulled, like the tide summoned by the moon, to a certain hallway in Skyhold, impelled by something inside that hungered and yearned and thwarted his best, convoluted plans.

That's how he found himself before Bull's door for the third night in a row.


	12. Audeamus (Part III)

"Come sleep with me: We won't make Love, Love will make us."  
― Julio Cortázar

* * *

Dorian opened the door to Bull's room, but found it dark and empty. Sparking his fingers, he summoned flames into the lanterns in the room.

_Much better._

He found Bull had tidied up the room carefully and made the bed neatly.

 _Hospital corners!_ he smirked, noticing the precise, rigid folds. _Must be a hangover from his Qunari military days…_

He realized with annoyance there was nowhere else, other than the bed, comfortable enough to sit and wait in.

 _Nowhere to wait and read a book while doing so,_ he thought, glancing around at the bare space, thinking of all the improvements he would have made to the room.

He finally sat on the bed and exhaled, displeased.

_Where is he? It's already late._

A impish impulse seized him and he began to unbutton his shirt.

_I'll save us some time._

* * *

 

The voices carried in from the hallway.

"…and don't go exploding stuff randomly—you have to thoroughly search through the rubble before blasting it," Bull warned, stopping by the door.

"You telling us how to do our job, chief?" a low voice chided him.

"Yes. That's why you call me 'chief,'" he stated with annoyance.

Dorian startled from the light slumber he'd fallen into while waiting. He immediately reached for the covers to pull up over his naked body, but the door banged open and he was confronted with three faces staring at him.

"Dorian!" Bull said, surprised.

Behind him Krem was straining his neck to catch a glimpse and Rocky was leaning out sideways to peek in.

He hastily sat up, covering himself with the sheet the best he could. He noticed Krem glancing around the hallway, confused.

"Did we take a wrong turn somewhere?" he puzzled.

Bull had an exasperating little grin on his lips, Dorian noted, thoroughly flummoxed.

"Meeting's over. See you tomorrow morning," he announced, slamming the door in his men's faces.

He glanced at Dorian, who cast him an alarmed look. Bull opened the door again as an afterthought and stepped into the hallway as if about to yell something out to his men. He hesitated, waved his hand dismissively instead, and closed the door.

"I could tell them to keep it on the down low, but you know it's no use. They can't help themselves," he explained.

Dorian was annoyed that what he had intended as a seductive maneuver had backfired so formidably.

"Ah…" Bull sighed heavily. "They're going to have a ball with this one."

"Can't they be discreet about these matters?" he asked crossly.

Bull crossed the room and sat on the bed, next to him.

"Nah. It's too good of a story, you have to admit," he concluded, taking off his boots. He paused. "You don't mind, do you? They won't behave like idiots for too long."

Dorian thought about the enormity of what Bull was asking him.

 _Do I mind what? That it will be known within the hour among all the Chargers that I was naked in The Iron Bull's bed? Who'll know next? Possibly all of Skyhold…Why not all of Thedas, while we're at it?_  he frowned.

But he did not have time to articulate his thoughts—he felt the covers sliding off his skin.

"Still, as far as surprises go, this is pretty good…" Bull said, admiring Dorian's perfectly proportioned and toned body.

 _What was that?_  he wondered as their lips met ardently. Bull was his usual wiseass self, but in his expression there had been something more. Even the way he was kissing him, caressing his face.

Warmth. Perhaps even… tenderness?

_Don't do this to me._

_Don't plant the idea in my head that there may be more to this._

_Because this is the last time._

_Really._

* * *

He still felt somewhat off, and not in an entirely bad way. The whole day he felt he had wandered through something of a light daze.

_Three times._

And he'd lost control. Lost himself. And worse: hadn't cared one bit. They had stopped briefly after the second time only because at one point things had become so frenzied that the heavy velvet curtains began to smoke, his emotions and power rising and surging together. They'd had to tear the curtains down, tossing water over the quickly spreading glow, and stamping furiously to put it out.

"Damn!" Bull marveled, turning to Dorian, impressed.

Dorian simply pushed Bull back down on the bed and kicked off round three.

At the end of the day he was meeting with Evelyn and a few others at the Herald's Rest to drink under the pretext of discussing the details of their next away mission. He hadn't known what to expect from Bull, but everything seemed to proceed as normal, even as he occasionally slipped his hand beneath the table to squeeze Dorian's knee.

"Stop doing that," he warned when for a brief moment everyone had directed their attention to the barmaid, who was taking their orders.

"You can try to stop me anytime," Bull dared him.

"I don't want to cause a scene," Dorian hissed.

"Then I get to squeeze as I please."

It all would have gone splendidly, despite the knee grabbing, if the Chargers hadn't filed in later on, making it a point to walk by their table and greet them loudly.

"Chief," they acknowledged Bull ceremoniously, one by one. "Dorian," they all added to their little act, with another obsequious nod, grinning and snickering suggestively.

Varric, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Evelyn all watched in slight confusion.

"What was that all about?" Cassandra wondered aloud.

Bull glared at the group as they settled at the back of the tavern.

"Very classy, you assholes!" he yelled out.

Jeering erupted. Some obscene hand gestures were exchanged.

Dorian kept his napkin over his taut lips. Bull sat down again and extended his arm across the back of Dorian's chair with a resigned sigh.

"Ah, well. Since there's no point in keeping it under wraps now, I might as well ask, before I forget: about last night…"

Dorian glared.

"Discretion isn't your thing, is it?"

"Three times!" he announced proudly, to their bewildered companions, holding up his fingers. "Also, do you want those silky underthings back, or did you leave those… like a token? Or …Wait…" Bull paused. "Did you forget them so you'd have an excuse to come back?… You sly dog!" he said with delight.

_So much for privacy and subtlety._

"If you choose to leave your door unlocked like a savage, I may or may not come," he stated patronizingly.

"Speak for yourself," Bull retorted.

 _Things can't get worse than this,_ Dorian tried to console himself. Iron Bull took stock of their table and turned towards the bar.

"Cabot!" he yelled. "One more round of ale!" He pointed at Cassandra's goblet. "Another goblet of wine for the Seeker." Before Dorian could interrupt him, he added, "And another Fereldan beer for our friend here."

 _A complete, resounding disaster,_  Dorian winced, well aware of all the eyes affixed upon him.

_There is nothing to salvage from this carnage._

_I am through._

* * *

"I didn't know it was a big deal," Bull said afterwards in that disarming, matter-of-fact way that made Dorian feel like he was overreacting. They stood outside together, in the courtyard, as the Herald's Rest emptied out for the evening.

"Besides, what do you care?" Bull chided him. "You and I are adults. We owe no one any explanations."

 _He has a point,_ Dorian reasoned.

"And so what if you like Fereldan beer…No one is perfect," Bull taunted him, walking ahead.

Dorian groaned, recalling all the ribbing he'd had to endure, especially from Varric, after that one. Bull stopped a few feet before him and held the door to the stairwell leading up to his quarters wide open.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Let's go!"

_No secrets. No lies._

_Interesting._

_Might be worth trying._

As he passed the awaiting Qunari and crossed the doorway, Bull slapped his rear with gusto.

"Festis bei umo canavarum," Dorian grumbled accusingly.

Bull chuckled and tossed his arm over his shoulders affectionately.

Dorian couldn't help grinning as they climbed the steps together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Curtain burning is taken from in-game dialogue as is Bull's bragging about Dorian's silky underthings and their prowess in bed, and of course, the rear smacking...The Tevene here was learned from Fenris. It means "You'll be the death of me." I suspect exasperated Tevinter lovers, parents, and people trying to hire reliable contractors say that a lot.
> 
> I love that these two can get together in the game. They are complementary opposites. There's still another part to this- an epilogue of sorts, and then I think I can afford to give them a little privacy. ;-)


	13. Audeamus (Epilogue)

"If you need something from somebody always give that person a way to hand it to you."

― Sue Monk Kidd

* * *

"Dorian… What the fuck!" Bull complained as he surveyed the room.

A newly arrived winged reading chair occupied the left corner of the room. It had made its appearance on the heels of a wardrobe, two nightstands on each side of the bed, and a large gravure of a dragon on the wall over the headboard. Bull had actually admired the gravure when Dorian had hung it up, but in doing so, he'd inadvertently given the mage carte blanche to change the room around.

"It's more comfortable this way," Dorian argued. "Now there's somewhere to sit and read."

"I can do that in bed," he protested, unconvinced.

Dorian glanced at the chair.

"But  _I_  like to sit and read in a proper chair. Maybe even put my feet up," he explained, patting the footstool.

He expected the Qunari to say something like, "Then go do it back in your own room," but to his relief he said no such thing. Instead, he marched up to the chair and attempted to sit in it.

"I don't fit—" he objected.

Dorian grimaced. He hadn't thought about that. He realized that even if Bull fit, the chair's forward-jutting wings would hit his horns.

_I'm going to have to find a better solution._

"Ugh! Now I can't get out," he grumbled, awkwardly trying to extricate himself.

"My chair…" Dorian lamented as Bull struggled against the armrests.

"Nice to see you have your priorities straight," Bull pointed out sardonically.

"It's just that the chair makes it much more relaxing— I can sit over here and read while you're sleeping, for example."

 _Or when you're away from Skyhold_ , he thought.

Bull stared at the chair pensively.

"Fine. But stow away the stool, so I don't trip and crack a horn or something."

"All right," he agreed.

"It might actually be nice to have the chair there for reading," Bull mused.

"But you don't fit," Dorian reminded him, poking at his waist.

"Not for me to use—for you."

Dorian looked at Bull suspiciously. He could never be sure when he was going to be emotionally sucker punched by one of Bull's jokes.

"It's good…I like watching you read. You get this…this intense, serious look on your face…It's very…" He let out a grunt and gave him a lusty look.

Dorian felt a bit dazed.

_He says the sweetest things out of the blue, the giant bastard. Makes it impossible to resent him._

"Good," Dorian said, clearing his throat. "I'm glad you feel that way... because I am having one of my bookcases brought here tomorrow."

"Where the Fade are you going to stick a bookcase in here, Dorian?" Bull protested, exasperated, as the mage crossed his arms, unmoved by the commotion.

* * *

"Do you always wear that to sleep?" Dorian turned towards Bull from his side of the bed, watching him stash away his folded pants in a drawer. Bull glanced down at him, confused.

"Wear what?"

"The eye patch."

"No," he said, heading towards the bed.

"How come?"

"It's for your benefit. So you don't have to look at it. It's pretty gruesome."

He slipped beneath the covers and reached over to shut off the lantern. Dorian stilled his hand.

"You don't have to, you know. Not for my sake."

"It's not a big deal. I'm used to it." He attempted to lean over towards the lantern again.

"Just take it off," Dorian urged him.

"I like that!" he exclaimed. "Why don't you say it just so when I'm wearing my pan—"

"Eye patch. Off," he commanded.

Bull slid the patch back, revealing the red jagged line sprawling across an uneven mass of scar tissue over where his left eye once was.

"By the Imperium!" Dorian cried out. "Was a butcher moonlighting as a surgeon when you were brought in?"

Bull slipped the eye patch back on quickly.

"We were in a desolate area when it all went down. Slim pickings."

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when people point and laugh. It hurts me deeply, even as I pummel their heads into the ground," Bull deadpanned.

"Why did you put it back on?"

"For fuck's sake, Dorian! What do you want?"

"Take it off." He held his ground.

"You were freaking out," Bull argued back.

"That was NOT freaking out. That was outrage."

"Neither one is going to let me sleep peacefully."

He looked at the mage's serious expression and after a momentary pause, pulled off the eyepatch, tugging it over his head, carefully unhooking it past his horn and dropping it onto the nightstand.

"See? Was that so difficult?" Dorian struggled not to gape at the horrible mess.

"Nice choice of words," he noted gruffly. "Shut off the lantern when you're ready to turn in," he stated, beginning to turn away from him.

Dorian reached for the massive shoulder and halted him with a firm touch. When Bull faced him and cast him a questioning look, he raised his hand and brushed his fingers gently over the scar, caressing it.

"Ouch!" Bull bellowed in apparent pain. Dorian drew his hand back instantly, terrified he'd hurt him only to see that he was rumbling with barely contained laughter.

"That is despicable," he accused him.

Bull laughed openly now.

"That was too funny. Your expression…Oh…" he gasped for air.

"I was trying to show you that your eye doesn't bother—"

"Save your pity. I don't need it." The smile faded from his lips.

"It isn't pity, you lummox!"

Bull searched his face.

"Then what?"

Dorian stared at him.

_That I hate this happened to you. That they did such a hack job on it. I loathe the thought of you injured or in pain. Because you have become precious to me. That is why._

He raised his hand again, and stroked the menacing, angular face, tracing his fingertips over the scars he now knew well, the sharp, pointed, downturned nose, and the rough black mustache over his lips.

"Bull," he said, in a quiet, intimate tone. Bull observed him curiously. "I can't…I can't tell your ugly scar from the rest of your ugly face, and your ugly face from your ugly ass, so it's all the same to me," he teased.

Bull balked for a moment before erupting in uproarious laughter.

"You bastard! Good one!"

Dorian grinned smugly. They remained in a comfortable silence, held in each other's eyes, as he tenderly continued to stroke Bull's face.

"I want us to stay this way." Bull placed his large hand over his, pressing it against his cheek.

"So do I," Dorian replied sincerely. "Very much so."

They smiled at each other.

"Provided Corypheus doesn't pulverize us—" he continued, jokingly.

"Peacock!" Bull said loudly, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. "Just stop right there. We're coming out of this in one piece, together," he uttered with determination.

"I thought 'Peacock' was  _my_  word!" He attempted to interject some lightheartedness into the conversation to mask how deeply touched he was by Bull's reaction.

"I don't like to think about it— if something were to happen to you—" he confided, a haunted expression on his face.

_I know._

Dorian lowered his fingers over Bull's lips and shook his own head in return.

"Let's not indulge such thoughts, then."

He felt Bull's arm move beneath the covers and reach over, embracing him.

 _Damn him for being able to say these things so easily. He is far less cautious, far less reserved, far more willing to take a risk and face the consequences head on._  He contemplated the rugged face with admiration.  _Even his battered flesh is living proof of it._

 _Dear Mother,_ Dorian recited in his head.  _Not only have I slept with the enemy and tastefully redecorated his quarters, I regret to inform you that I've fallen in love with him. Cue your smelling salts._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Those of you who've done the Bull romance will recognize some aspects/dialogue I borrowed...I really love these two together. ;-)


	14. Open String

 

"There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse."  
― Sappho

* * *

Maryden strummed a sorrowful tune.

The remaining patrons at the Herald's Rest, already mired in an alcohol-induced stupor, fell further into a reverent silence as they followed the all-too-familiar melody in their heads. Cabot, drying glasses behind the bar, was skewering her with ice cold glares.

 _I am here for my art_ , Maryden thought defiantly. _If he wanted mindless entertainment, he should have hired a jester instead._

As she concluded the song, silence hung over the room. A hollow clap arose from the back, where someone felt obliged to recognize her playing. She stood silently for a solid five minutes, allowing the feelings evoked by her performance to truly sink in, grip the listeners, take root in their hearts.

During those five minutes, Cabot saw the bulk of the remaining customers pay their tabs and leave the tavern.

"Maryden!" Cabot scolded her afterwards. "This is a _tavern_! You are not here to sing dirges. You are here to entertain!"

"Our cultural history is entertaining!" she argued.

"Singing of blood-tainted snow in Haven is _not_ entertaining!"

"It's red-tainted snow, not blood-tainted snow," Maryden corrected him. "The blood is merely IMPLIED," she emphasized.

"Well, I'm surprised no one has tried drowning themselves in their tankards yet."

"It's because your ale is so bad," she huffed.

"Liven it up," he warned.

She began to pack for the night, scowling crossly at the patron who, clearly intoxicated, showered her with applause when the lute accidentally slipped from her hands and toppled over the floor.

"What a performance!" he slurred, his eyes woozily wandering as he spoke. "What are you going to play for us next?"

"I'm done for tonight," she declared, hauling the case's strap over her shoulder.

"Ooh! I love that one!" he stated enthusiastically. As if buoyed by music in his head, his fingers began to float in the air. "I'm dooooone for the niiiight…" he warbled tone deafly.

A volley of cheers came from the very back of the tavern, where the mercenary Chargers sat.

"Sing it, Gabby!" someone shouted.

"You like that, eh?" he yelled back, his grin revealing several gaps among his teeth. "Here's another," he stated boldly, tottering to where Maryden ordinarily stood when performing.

She chose to ignore his antics, pulling on her gloves.

"I had a girl in Rivain," he belted out. The Chargers cheered loudly and some even pulled their chairs around. "I wish I remembered her name…"

More cheers and some laughter. Someone called out for another round. Cabot began to fill up the tankards.

 _Unrefined scoundrels_ , she thought uncharitably, whamming her shoulder into the drunk on her way out.

"She was light on her feet, and could tangle a sheet…" he croaked mischievously, goaded on by the attention being showered on him.

"Wooo, Gabby!"

_Hrumph! They never cheer for me like that…but then again, their tastes cannot be taken seriously. A bunch of mercenaries, anyway. What do they know about good music? Culture?_

She was a bard! A true bard! Not one of those intriguemongers who slinked around in the dark with poison-coated daggers. No! Her weapons were her lute and her voice. She was charged with an important mission: keeping history alive through her music. She had gone there to sing of the Inquisitor's deeds. So far she only really had the barbarous events from Haven…and Adamant…and Halamshiral to share.

"Maryden, can't you sing about more cheerful things?" Cabot would entreat her.

_And corrupt the truth?_

"I'm sorry, but I must transmit my interpretation of the facts through my poetry and my music."

_I have a greater purpose, a gift—and I must be true to that calling._

It was difficult, though, to stand there, night after night, reliving the Inquisition's most challenging moments, and trying not to take it personally when people grabbed their tankards as she set up for the evening, and made their way to the tables farther away…sometimes even escaping to the second floor.

_The truth isn't always pleasant, but someone has to tell it._

"Maryden…for the love of Andraste! A drinking song. Just one. Please." Cabot implored one night. "You are killing me!"

_Then just go and croak already…and stop interfering._

She resumed the song she had been singing so soulfully: "Empress of Fire."

"Empress of fire,/Save us, everyone./The nation reviles,/The course is but run, and end has begun," she recited to the morose crowd.

She could empathize with the Inquisitor; she understood heroism. She knew what it was like to offer her music to everyone, without distinction, in service of a greater good.

 _This is all for you, you ingrates_ , she fumed, trying to sing over the din of conversation and laughter surrounding her.

Behind the bar, Cabot shook his head.

* * *

On one fateful evening, she was asked to play a Fereldan jig by one of the Inquisitor's companions.

"I don't know any," she admitted. "Besides, I already have a program for the evening."

"I'm sure no one will bloody care, yeah?" the drunken elf had asked, standing before her. She was a delicate thing—shorter, her hair cropped bluntly and unevenly, long sandy wisps of hair framing either side of her face.

"Come on, Sera!" a dark haired bearded man called out from a table farther back where a few patrons were playing a game of cards. "You either dance a jig or cut your losses."

"I'm not dancing until I get some music! I'm not jumping 'round looking all possessed like and stuff, " she yelled out, reaching her arm out so she could steady herself on Maryden's shoulder.

"Good luck getting her to play any requests," Cabot complained, turning back into the kitchen.

"Can't anyone else here play something?" the dark haired man asked crossly.

"Dorian, you had a fine patrician upbringing... Surely you can play an instrument," a red-haired dwarf wondered aloud to the companion sitting across from him— a tall, elegant man with a well-manicured mustache.

"I'm afraid I cannot help you there. The lute was beneath any son of House Pavus. I was instructed instead in the art of the agonizingly slow death by archicembalo," he apologized.

"That's interesting," the burly Qunari sitting next to him mused. "I would have sworn you were a master of the flute."

Some laughter erupted from the table. The mustachioed man turned to the Qunari, unfazed.

"Yes, well...I've been mastering horns as of late," he teased.

The Qunari chuckled, placing his cards face down on the table.

"Krem!" he bellowed across the tavern, startling everyone else. A young man sitting at a different table with the Chargers turned around while clasping an almost empty bottle of wine. "Where is Jasper? Tell him to get his ass over here."

Maryden watched the small commotion beside the elf, who had now simply linked her arm into hers, snuggling closer, observing everything unfurl in a contented haze. She found herself distracted by the elf's proximity, her touch, the faint scent of soap from her hair wafting up to her nose. It was lovely…even inebriating…She came to when she noticed a man saunter up to them, his gaze intent on her lute.

"Do you mind?" he asked, reaching out for it.

She was lost momentarily, unsure as to what he was referring to.

"Here you go," the elf grabbed the lute from her hands. "Make it lively," she stated.

Maryden watched in horror as someone else cradled her lute, strumming a few chords tentatively, an intent look of concentration in his eyes. Apparently satisfied, he gave her a nod and began to play in earnest. A bouncy melody sounded throughout the tavern, and both the Chargers and the card players interrupted their conversations to watch.

"Oh, shite! Everyone's waitin' for the show," Sera chortled, stumbling forward, her arm still linked to hers. "Ready?" she smiled brazenly.

"But-but-" Maryden had no time to interject or protest; before she understood what was happening, the elf had spun her around, prancing about haphazardly with her in tow. Sera stopped and clapped in the air, nearly missing her hands altogether, and bending over with bubbly laughter, switched directions, dragging Maryden down the opposite end of the tavern just as frantically. She just managed to see Cabot step back out into the bar at the commotion, and upon seeing his bard bounding across the tavern floor, he merely backed away into the kitchen once more.

The elf now was kicking up her heels and trying to tap them with the opposite hand, crashing into chairs, patrons, and her, ultimately, as she hadn't let go of her yet.

"What a rousing performance… Reenactment of a battle of sorts, isn't it?" the man named Dorian marveled.

"Ok, Buttercup…That's enough, or there really will be corpses on the ground here…" the dwarf announced, watching her twirl and bump into a table, knocking someone's tankard over. The Qunari gestured at the lute player, his hand slicing across the air in front of him sharply.

The room was plunged in dazed silence, except for the spritely elf still uttering a breathless "tra la la" out of tune. All eyes were upon them, Maryden realized in profound embarrassment.

"What?" Sera cried out, surprised to find herself anchored to the spot by a petrified Maryden. "Where'd the music go?" she asked, almost as if deeply hurt.

"It's over. Come back and sit down," the bearded man called out amusedly. "That was almost worth the coin you aren't paying me."

"I'm getting you back, you hairy tit!" she threatened, delightedly. She directed her attention back to Maryden and without any warning, gathered the bard tightly in her arms, clumsily concluding their act by attempting to dip her. At one moment, they were eye to eye, the elf's pouty lips almost touching her own.

"Don't worry—I've got this," Sera winked, an arm wrapped unsteadily around her shoulder.

Of course, they both collapsed to the ground with a great thud.

* * *

Maryden was able to return to the Herald's Rest a few days after the concussion. Cabot had braced himself for a program filled with solemn odes filled with laments. Instead, he found his bard eager to get back to work. While her selection of songs was neither better nor worse than the usual, he did notice she played with renewed enthusiasm. It wasn't until later in the evening that she finally took a break, and only when Varric burst through the door, followed by Blackwall, a couple of the Chargers, and Sera.

At the sight of the slender elf, Maryden's heart skipped a beat. She stashed her lute against the wall and pushed through the modest crowd towards her table. She timed her approach to a lull in the conversation. Sera tiredly rolled her shoulders.

"Hello!" Maryden said brightly.

Sera peered at her curiously.

"Hey!"

"How have you been?" she continued.

"Not bad. Yourself?" Sera offered, her eyes still not registering any recognition.

"I'm all better now, in case you were worried," she smiled, patting the back of her head. "You shouldn't trouble yourself over it," she reassured Sera.

Sera stared, perplexedly.

"Wasn't planning on it."

Maryden kept grinning.

"Would you like to have a drink with me later on?"

"Have we ever sat down to have one before?"

She hesitated.

"No…we haven't. But we danced together—"

" _Danced_? As in to music? Because I don't...Or is that shifty talk for somethin' else?" Sera's asked worriedly.

Maryden's heart sank a bit.

"We danced a jig…here…You…" She stopped and huffed. "Don't you remember?"

"No," Sera confessed.

"You were quite drunk," Varric explained helpfully, before turning back to the others.

Sera pondered the mystifying revelations.

"Was I any good?" she finally asked.

"You dropped me on my head," Maryden added wistfully.

"Sorry I missed it! Seems like it was good fun, wasn't it?"

It _had_ been a lot of fun. She hadn't felt so carefree and excited like that in ages. At least, up until the whole concussion bit.

"Would you like to have that drink later?…" Maryden insisted.

"That's sounds like a bad idea: drinking and I don't mix…with you, apparently, that is," Sera said bluntly.

The rest of the evening progressed funereally as ever. All the songs were stark and depressing, filled with loss and angst. Cabot found himself closing the tavern early for a lack of patrons.

"A record evacuation! Congratulations! You've outdone yourself," he said sarcastically.

* * *

Maryden saw Sera enter the tavern, night after night, and slide over one of the benches with many other people: some were part of the close knit group of companions the Inquisitor often surrounded herself with—and others were people she saw around the fortress: a laundress, a scullery maid, a cook's assistant, among others. Others who were never Maryden. Sometimes Sera merely traipsed across the room towards the stairs, pulling herself up tiredly towards her room. Maryden watched her from afar, with a constant longing, her frustration taken out in the songs she strummed. It had gotten to the point that Cabot would simply toss his hands up in the air anytime he saw the elf enter the tavern.

"Aaaaand… there go any profits."

One evening she must have looked particularly forlorn when Sera breezed passed her, because even Cabot took pity and brought her a tankard of ale.

"She doesn't remember me at all…and doesn't want to get to know me," she sighed to the dwarf, taking an uncharacteristic break from all the mournful melodies she had been performing that night.

"Look, it could always be worse. Take me, for example. When you first came here, I thought your music selections were bad. But they aren't," he stated. She glanced at the tavern keeper with a hint of gratitude. "They are terrible," he muttered. She stared at him incredulously. "And I know you have the potential to make them even worse," he continued. "Because you are a determined woman. You will find a way to put tragedy into music, if you will it." He crossed his arms. "I just wish you willed yourself out of this funk." He pat her on the back. "Do what it takes, but don't let a brushoff determine the rest of your career."

"I know!" Maryden said with newly found enthusiasm. Cabot waited, interested. "I'm going to write her song! Maybe she'll take notice then!"

He groaned, scratching the back of his ear impatiently.

"I don't know why I bother!"

* * *

 _A full house,_ Maryden noticed, as she wandered to the side of the fireplace, as was her habit. Her surveying glance across the crowded room alighted on the tow-headed elf laughing boisterously with several familiar faces—all part of the Inquisitor's more intimate group. She tuned her lute as barmaids zigzagged through the crowd with large round trays balanced over their shoulders. Cabot moved spryly behind the bar, calling out for clean tankards and plunking down change before customers.

She took a deep breath and positioned her fingers over the lute's neck.

"Sera was never an agreeable girl…" she began singing in a clear voice, plucking the strings in an upbeat tempo.

Conversations dimmed briefly as people directed their attention to the bard. As she sang, she noticed heads nodding, feet tapping, fingers drumming, and all eyes upon her. By the time she reached the chorus for the last time, several listeners had lifted their drinks at her and were singing along spiritedly to the lines "She's a rogue and a thief, And she'll tempt your fate."

When she finished, applause, cheers, and whistles filled the room. Even Cabot clapped animatedly, a dishtowel flung over his shoulder.

"Again!" someone shouted!

"Encore!" another voice seconded.

It was exhilarating. One glance at Sera revealed a frozen sneer on her face. It gave her momentary pause because she had sincerely hoped the elf would have liked the song, but her expression told her otherwise.

 _Does it really matter?_ Maryden shrugged. _It's not like there was much to lose there from the beginning, was there?_

She caressed the strings, bowing her head repeatedly at the fanfare she was receiving.

 _It is unusual,_ she thought, smiling. _I think I like this. It may be pandering to baser tastes, but it's on my terms…Somewhat…_ she told herself sheepishly.

As she began singing the song again to a merry, drunken accolade, feeling herself light up inside and flush proudly from all the attention she was getting, she clutched her lute with even more determination.

_Muses may come and go…But we'll always have each other: my music and I._

 


	15. Nation's Son (Part I)

**15: Nation's Son (Part I)**

"Non nobis solum nati sumus.  
(Not for ourselves alone are we born.)"  
~ Cicero

* * *

_The second husband is definitely not like the first husband_ , the queen concluded.

The wisteria hung down heavily from the trellised arches over the castle's garden path, showering the ground with a sprinkling of petals. She held the skirt of her gown up daintily to keep the hem from dragging in the damp earth as they wandered down to the south wing's armory.

Her first husband, for instance, would never have so eagerly volunteered to help her with such a mundane task just to escape social obligations like the second husband. Had he wanted to, he could have remained all afternoon comfortably ensconced in a chair munching languidly on finger foods and sipping wine while listening to the musically inclined, but not necessarily talented, Arl and Arlessa Farris of the influential Whitehorn arling sing and play together to the great delight of no one. She reminded him of it, a bit crossly even, as he swatted at the lush vines of wisteria and anything else that vaguely approached his face, while he stubbornly followed her down the pathway.

"I don't see YOU sitting in the parlor all afternoon. Why should I?" the king protested, ducking and trying to whack a flying beetle trying to land on his head.

She did not answer and proceeded walking ahead, her back rigid, her posture impeccably straight. She couldn't blame him. Not at all. Still, he was becoming wiser to her over the past few months and less compliant when it came to her attempts to foist him off on some dreary social event. The truth was she wasn't used to having him around as much as he had been. Since they'd been wed, they had managed to settle into a fairly cordial partnership, which meant they were skilled at staying out of each other's way. From the beginning of their marriage, he was usually away, leading the initiative to rebuild different parts of Ferelden, on missions to fight off lingering pockets of Darkspawn, and, most of all, rallying their people's morale. But when the Grey Wardens began to disappear and they received a message from the Inquisition's spymaster urging them to be cautious and keep Alistair in Denerim, Anora had to, for the first time in ten years really, contend with sharing the castle with her king.

On a day-to-day basis she found he deferred to her on smaller diplomatic, legal, and financial matters. Nevertheless, she found him to be positively rebellious when it came to performing his social duties. She'd hoped to have a quiet supper that evening after meeting with so many dignitaries earlier. She'd just have to invite the Farrises for dinner to make up for her and Alistair's egregious absence, she decided tiredly.

"What are we doing anyway?" Alistair wondered.

"You volunteered so eagerly. I thought for sure you knew..." Anora began, annoyed.

"I would have gladly volunteered to kill the Archedemon to get out of there..." he muttered.

"Oh, so your accompanying me is on par with having to slay the Archdemon?" She feigned a coldness in her tone, knowing well what reaction she was about to unleash.

"What's that? That's not what I was saying!" he cried out. She grinned slyly, facing ahead. "Although now that you are peeved with me, it just might be..."

Further up the path, Thalissa, the Head Matron in the castle, awaited them at the heavy wooden door at the bottom of a desolate structure. A ring of keys rested at the end of a thin silver chain hanging from her belt. Three castle guards stood at the ready as they approached.

"Your Majesties," the Head Matron said, with a deep courtesy and reverent head bow.

Anora raised her light blue eyes at the dilapidated south wing of the palace. It had been severely damaged after the Blight, but other than ensure the castle would not be exposed or weakened in any way, had not authorized any great repairs. Rebuilding the wing had felt wasteful after so much destruction elsewhere and there had been far more urgent repairs to be made throughout the country. Once she and Alistair had been wed, she had hastily used the armory on the lower level, still relatively intact, as a storage space for various items she had collected at the last minute and decided to peruse more thoroughly once she had more time...and disposition. She wondered if she would have bothered returning there that day if it hadn't been for one of the stonemasons informing them of the risk of collapse and the need to either rebuild or properly demolish the structure. She'd been inclined to have Thalissa sort through the old belongings and dispose of them appropriately, but a hint of curiosity—and caution— tugged at her. She barely remembered what she had stashed away in the room at the time, when she was still reeling from so many personal upheavals in her life. Back then she had forced herself to forge through all the uncertainty, the memories still hazy. She wondered what the Anora of ten years ago had stashed away so hurriedly.

Thalissa was speaking to her, but her mind had been wandering.

"They will do the heavy lifting for you, Your Highness," she indicated the guards. "And as requested, we have secured two carts in the courtyard: one bound for the Chantry and the other for Lord Guerrin," she continued dutifully.

"Eamon?" Alistair asked her, puzzled.

Anora surveyed the unkempt cobblestoned patio before the armory door, overgrown with moss and weeds.

"There are some of Cailan's old belongings in there. I thought the Guerrins might like to claim them," she mused, her voice distant, immersed in thought. "Unless," she turned to him, "you might want something of your brother's?"

"Some might say I already have something of my brother's," he remarked, cocking an eyebrow at her.

The soldiers erupted in a volley of well-timed throat clearing and she noticed Thalissa raise a hand to her mouth to discreetly conceal a grin.

She did not acknowledge the remark, but thought in passing that it was for little things like that that the people of Ferelden adored their king. He was candid, spontaneous, without guile― all things that endeared him to their subjects. As she waited for Thalissa to find the right key to the rusty iron lock, she thought her alliance with Alistair had been a very clever coup. The people respected her for her fair judgments and decisions. Anora had the appreciation and support of her people; she had no doubt about that. But Alistair…He was their hero, the one who had helped fight the Archdemon to the death. He was the uncontested favorite son of Ferelden, beloved by all for the gripping tales of his humble upbringing, selfless dedication to service and unassuming and modest manner. She was quite sure she would not have been able to weather all the challenges they had faced in rebuilding the country if it hadn't been for their charismatic king traveling throughout the country and rallying their morale.

"Did you volunteer to be here too, Thalissa?" Alistair asked the woman with his customary familiarity.

"Messere?" she asked, slightly confused.

"I am only here to get away from the Farrises," he told her conspiratorially. "They are performing some...some ghastly dragon mating call in there," he confided. "I suspect we might be under siege from above any moment now." He eyed the sky uneasily, for effect.

Thalissa maintained her polite façade, but Anora could see her eyes glinting with mirth.

"Should that be the case, Messere, we would not be defenseless and the dragon would find itself outmatched," she replied graciously.

"You are alluding to our queen, right? Because she can be quite fierce both in the battlefield and off. I am most definitely hiding behind her, if necessary," he chuckled. "Like in the board game: queen protects the king."

Anora rolled her eyes.

The old hinges were almost completely rusted and opened with so much difficulty, the half rotted door settled crookedly once it was released. A musty, damp odor wafted from the tomb like room, and Anora lifted her handkerchief to her nose with displeasure as two of the guards removed the door from its hinges completely.

"I need light. Fetch me a candelabra," she said to Thalissa after examining the darkness before them. The woman beckoned one of the guards and ordered him off on the errand. The other guards began hauling out the items that were closest to the door.

 _So much to dispose of!_  Anora thought, repulsed by the old, molding curtains left for a decade on the ground.

They had once adorned Cailan's quarters before she had the rooms stripped of everything, leaving them bare for Alistair to refurnish and refurbish as he saw fit. He'd ended up asking her for help. She couldn't tell if he just didn't know how to go about such matters or if he just did not care.

"Pick a pattern!" she had ordered him, impatiently.

"I don't know! The…orange one!"

"That's just horrid," she'd grimaced.

"You told me to choose!" he'd stated with exasperation.

She signaled for the guard to toss the stained fabric onto a heap on the ground. Curtains and bedspreads, pillows and bedclothes, among other items that had not survived the room's dampness, were unceremoniously tossed away.

"Look at that! A cozy little hovel fit for Darkspawn," Alistair mused at the sight of the pile of tattered linens on the floor.

"It's a shame, really. They were very fine once," she sighed.

She found several things she felt would be of interest to Alistair.

"King Marric's inkwell and quill…" She took the tarnished silver tray holding two heavy crystal inkewells from one of the guards' hands. "I forgot I had put this in there. Cailan used to have it on his writing desk. Do you want it?" she asked him.

He took it from her and eyed it curiously.

She wondered what thoughts crossed his mind and if it was too much to expect him to cherish the belongings of a man he barely knew.

"It's an elegant piece," she advised. "It would look fetching on your desk."

"Right," Alistair mumbled.

Anora couldn't tell if he was making one of his puns.

"Right right or write write?" she inquired.

"Just… right," he quickly amended.

She sniffed indifferently and crossed her arms, waiting for the next pile of belongings to be brought to her.

"My jokes are certainly wittier than that," he sulked.

He placed the inkwell on the pile of "to keep" already populated with a few rescued treasures: a couple paintings, a vase, a small bust, and a rug.

Once the candelabra arrived, she was able to enter the cavernous room, where a chill hung in the air despite the pleasant warm spring afternoon. Brushing away cobweb strands, she continued to guide the guards in the unearthing of various belongings— debris of a past life, it seemed.

The large portrait of Queen Rowan she and Alistair unanimously agreed would be a lovely and thoughtful gift for Eamon — she had no desire to keep running into such a large likeness of the late mother-in-law she'd never met.

A collection of daggers from around Thedas would go to Arl Teagan.

An old chainmail shirt would be donated to the smith, but Alistair had insisted on trying it on out of curiosity…and perhaps a little vanity, she suspected.

"It doesn't fit!" he announced smugly. "I'm too muscular for it."

"It appears to be straining the most around your midsection," she remarked with calculated casualness just to see his face flush with mild outrage.

It secretly amused her to no end.

She realized she was getting close to being done with Cailan's personal effects when she came across a familiar locked trunk. It sent a chill up her spine.

"Leave that there," she instructed. "It can remain here and be discarded with the rubble once work begins on the building," she explained.

It was a lie. She would have to send her trusted spymaster to properly burn the letters hidden inside later on that day; she wanted no vestiges of Cailan's betrayal against her or Ferelden made public.

Maker knew she had had to deal with enough malicious gossip about Cailan and their marriage.

_Let people mourn the unfortunate king and preserve the reputation of the current one intact._

She did not need suspicion cast over them, any suspicion cast over Alistair's loyalties. Especially not when they were being forced by the Inquisition to entertain the possibility of talks with Orlais.

Her jaw tensed anytime Celene was mentioned.

"You will have to handle any forthcoming negotiations," she'd explained to Alistair when the Inquisition's Ambassador had approached them about brokering an agreement between the nations. "I will give you the guidelines, the absolute limit of what we can concede and the minimum we will accept before anything can be formalized."

Alistair had looked absolutely panicked.

"And where will you be, I might ask?"

"Not there," she insisted.

She was fully aware she was a liability at any negotiations involving Orlais. In this matter she could not be counted on to remain level headed and understood the right thing was for her to remove herself. She would not bring herself to sit across from the scheming Orlesian empress with whom Cailan had plotted behind her back. It had been a betrayal― an unexpected one she had never imagined, treachery that had taught her a lesson she had learned well:  _In the struggle for power, love and friendship are expendable. Trust no one._

When she stripped the royal rooms so thoroughly, she had wanted no reminders of Cailan, the boy around whom she had been forced to shape her life. They had been betrothed at an early age, and in her mind, there had been no question of her playing a role in Ferelden's politics someday. The expectations of the Crown might as well have been her own―she had difficulty distinguishing between the two, anyhow. She had taken to ruling the country with much greater determination and practicality than her first husband. She did not mind the drudgery of the small quibbles and mundane affairs. She understood that minding them was akin to maintaining her fingers ever mindfully over a pulse. She mediated, decreed, oversaw, presided over ceremonies, both mournful and celebratory, passed judgment, and was at the forefront of battle, leading her army, when the nation had needed her the most. Her desire to rule was matched only by her masterful wielding of power. She did what she did well and knew it.

"We are done," she decreed to all, apparently satisfied with the excursion. "Anything in there can remain as is. The door needs to be replaced, in the meantime."

Thalissa sent the guards running in different directions: one was to fetch tools to repair the door, the other was to begin hauling the items to the cart headed to the Chantry and the the last one carried items to the cart bearing heirlooms to the Guerrin estate in downtown Denerim.

She and Alistair found themselves alone as the others carried out their duties. Alistair took the candelabra and examined the room briefly.

"There are still a few things in here," he remarked.

"Nothing of consequence," she said curtly.

"There's something leaning against the wall at the back," he told her. "That stays too?"

 _What was he talking about?_  she thought edgily, stepping back into the room once more.

Alistair pointed and Anora seized the candelabra from his hands, wandering closer. At first, in the dimness of the room, she mistook the dark wooden panels for the sides of a dismantled box, or trunk, but as she approached them, she recognized the fine scrollwork carved along the edges, the painted crest of the Theirins on the headboard.

She recoiled and proceeded to exit the room with a steely glare.

"Anora?" Alistair peered back at the empty threshold. He leaned over to take up the candelabra and walked up to the offending item. It took him longer to realize what it was, but as he slid one of the panels aside, he realized what it was.

A crib.

He brushed his hand over the smooth surface, reckoning that it had been Cailan's crib, possibly Maric's, too― and that it had been kept for the much desired heir who never arrived.

He sensed movement behind him and heard Thalissa's voice.

"Your Highness?"

"I'm done here," he told her, turning to her, a suddenly weariness weighing upon him.

"Yes, Messere," she stated respectfully. "I will watch over the repair of the door and lock up when they are done."

She saw him glance about outside as if disoriented.

"Her Majesty passed me on the path in great haste back to the main hall," she told him worriedly.

He gazed down the garden path as if rallying his thoughts. He was not sure what to say to her at that point. The last time he had tried to commiserate with her over the matter, she had rebuked him severely. He had told her he regretted not being able to give her her heart's desire, and she had scoffed, as if he had uttered the most cretinous words.

"I have no heart's desire. I desire only what is best for Ferelden," she had told him coldly.

But he had seen her eyes glisten with tears.

He was not feeling well that day; ever since Adamant he'd been plagued by short recurring bouts of a Taint-based malaise.

 _It is going to be a long evening_ , he concluded dourly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally intended this to be short: a one-shot. But I kept running into all these complexities of their characters that I wanted to explore. I find Anora very intriguing- I find her a little frightening, but I definitely don't find her the heartless shrew many people believe her to be. She was raised to be the queen and performed her duty exceedingly well. And yet, despite all her talents and gifts, her husband had been plotting to replace her mostly because of the one thing she could not do: have a child. It all came down to that. So before we all get angry at how utterly underwhelmed she was at marrying Alistair (if you ever chose that option), remember this woman was betrayed by all the men she loved and trusted all her life. Her father doubted her competence and sought to usurp her power, and her husband and childhood friend was going to discard her for an alliance with Orlais. Talk about being objectified. 
> 
> So we have an angry, scorned Anora on the right side of the ring and the constant, self sacrificing, upright Alistair on the left.
> 
> So interesting.
> 
> Let the games begin. 
> 
> Part II up soon!


	16. Nation's Son (Part II)

**16: Nation's Son (Part II)**

"Go out in the woods, go out. If you don't go out in the woods nothing will ever happen and your life will never begin."  
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés

* * *

Anora was grateful for the end of the long evening, filled with forced smiles and trite conversations. Remaining in the good graces of the Farrises was a strategic move. Whitehorn was, after all, a rich arling and it held a significant sway over the Bannorn— something she needed anytime she had to deal with the unruly group of rulers. The couple had been mollified during the dinner, it appeared, and had regretfully announced their imminent departure the following morning, much to her relief. Alistair's too, she suspected, although he had remained uncharacteristically silent during dinner. He bid them an early good night, apologizing and alluding to the common discomforts Grey Wardens tended to experience. His face had seemed wan and his eyes much darker.

During all those years she hadn't really seen him in the throes of his…condition. He was usually far away at those times. But now he was there and the strange ailment appeared to manifest itself more often. Her physicians were of insignificant aid— they prescribed little more than elfroot phials and rest, although they tried to reassure the monarchs that many of the Wardens returning to Amaranthine were experiencing similar symptoms.

"It is not the Calling," Leliana's letter repeated what they had already been told by other surviving Wardens when they had sought out more details from the Inquisition about the situation. "But Corypheus appears to be unleashing all kinds of sorcerous effects on Thedas. The symptoms of your discomfort may not subside until Corypheus is defeated, I'm afraid. In the meantime, please be careful and remain in Denerim, my dear friend," she had written back to Alistair.

As Anora was escorted by her retinue to her apartments that evening, she glanced down the hall to the doorway to Alistair's rooms, debating whether or not she should pay him a short visit to verify his well being.

 _He appeared so pale_ , she recalled.

They rarely were in each others quarters, although for the first year of their marriage, she had dutifully invited him to hers. She needed the kingdom to know that she was trying to fulfill her obligations. And while she hadn't raised her hopes too highly, a small part of her had wished to prove Cailan wrong about her fertility and to place the blame for their childlessness squarely on him. She and Cailan had tried for a child frantically, to the verge of her denigration, she remembered angrily. Desperation had trumped affection, respect, and become a singular, obsessive goal. She believed Cailan had shared her heartbreak and burden, but instead he extricated himself from any blame by accusing her, and her alone, of being defective.

And suddenly all those years, all her dedication and loyalty to him, to their position and rank, had been effaced.

 _I do not know why I bothered being his companion, wife, partner―none of those things mattered as much as being his breeder_ , she thought to herself contemptuously, as she had so often over the years.

How she looked, how she carried herself, all that she knew… Alone those things were irrelevant.

_No better than a prized mare or heifer._

And because she was unable to do the only thing that was expected of her, Cailan would have discarded her without regard or consideration.

 _In the struggle for power_ …her mind echoed bitterly.

To say she had welcomed Alistair into her bed would've been a gross exaggeration. He'd been reticent to do as he was bid, telling her he didn't expect her to perform such duties, but she'd explained to him, in very unsentimental terms, the nature of their obligation.

Although she did very little in the way of encouraging Alistair once they were performing the deed, he'd always been gentle and oddly considerate, given the awkward circumstances. She contrasted his behavior with Cailan's, especially towards the end, when he would simply roll off her and walk away from her bed once he was done, indifferent, otherwise absorbed, his displeasure and frustration more and more evident as each month confirmed what all had suspected for a long time. At the time, she attributed his detachment to worry. She believed things would go back to normal after Ostagar. After he died, she had still clung to the conviction that things would have gone back to normal, and mourned for the unrealized, imaginary future they had been meant to share. It was only after the cache of letters was discovered that she understood the true meaning of his behavior.

In his eyes she was no longer his queen—and it was only as queen that she had been relevant at all to him. "Anora" did not matter.

As far as anyone knew, Cailan may have been the one to blame. For all the rumored affairs, he failed to produce any bastards, she pursed her lips scornfully. She knew. She had her eyes and ears throughout the kingdom inquire.

When no child materialized after the first year of lying with Alistair, the invitations to her bedchamber diminished until they all but ended. Once in a while they would arrange to spend an evening together, but nothing more beyond conversation and sleep occurred. It was for the benefit of the people. She knew it was important for morale if the people believed them to be a real, stable couple, she had informed him. That every time his personal guard escorted him to her door at night, it was gossip that propagated easily and appeased their subjects.  _It is for Ferelden_ was her motto _._  He had listened to her justifications for their occasional meetings in silence and she wondered if anything she said had stung him. She remembered when they had ascended to the throne together, after professing their wedding vows and being presented jointly to their court: he had timidly attempted to take her hand, but she had instinctively shaken him off.

As their conjugal visits waned, she fully expected him to seek fulfillment of his urges elsewhere.

But he never did.

This too, she knew for a fact. Again, she had deployed her eyes and ears throughout the kingdom. At first she had smirked at the report's findings…Or rather, lack of findings.

 _Wait_ , she had told herself.  _He will prove himself soon enough._

She told herself the same thing after the second year…third…and all subsequent years.

Yet, he did no such thing.

She brushed out her long, thick blond hair from its usual braided bun as she pondered whether or not she would go to him that night. Perhaps it would be a good thing if the guards saw her visiting him when he was unwell. Besides, she had learned to resent him less over time, had developed a grudging respect and honest admiration for him, for his character. They did not clash with each other often. Over the last months, she even had begun to appreciate his company somewhat. As with Cailan, there was something very juvenile about Alistair… But unlike Cailan, there was no malice in him.

She had asked him once, pointblank, if he had turned away from a more desirable path in life to answer his call to serve the people of Ferelden. She asked him detailed questions about his past, beyond the circumstances of his birth, upbringing, and role in ending the Blight, but he had rebuffed her carefully.

"I would rather not lie. I am not good at lying," he told her. "So don't ask me questions that would make me want to lie."

She had displayed displeasure at his reply, but in truth she respected it.

Anora contemplated her face in the mirror and felt immensely fatigued. She was a couple years older than Alistair. Ten years ago, despite his hesitation in obeying her orders to bed her, he never refused her. For all her teasing about his growing older, she realized that in the years since she had met him, he had striven to maintain himself battle ready, engaging regularly in military exercises with the Fereldan army, and until recently, with his fellow Grey Wardens. She would catch herself staring at him surreptitiously and noted that except for the hint of grey blending into his dark blond hair at his temples and a few lines on his face, especially around his eyes whenever he smiled, Alistair had aged little since they'd been wed. He was still a striking, strong man. Perhaps it had something to do with the Taint, she gathered.

 _I wonder what he thinks of his queen_ , she thought, staring at herself.  _His older, bitter, barren queen._

* * *

She stepped out into the hallway, immediately spurring her personal guards into a frenzy as they scrambled to stand and salute her. She wore her flowing, wavy hair down, and was enveloped in her finest dressing gown and satin bed slippers.

"I am going to the king's chambers," she announced.

The guards bowed deferentially and led the way down the ridiculously short walk down the other end of the hall. Alistair's personal guards rose respectfully as she approached and paused before the door. She could almost hear the morning gossip already: "The queen was the one who went to the king last night!"

She was quite certain speculations as to why she had called on him would be lewd, but it was all, nevertheless, good for their image. She rapped at the door until she heard Alistair open it. He stood before her in his night shirt looking befuddled.

"Anora! What?―" he asked incredulously. "Is something on fire?" he wondered, upon seeing her at his door, flanked by the guards.

He blurted out the question without thought, but she pressed her lips at the interesting choice of words that would undoubtedly be reworked through the grapevine as a delightfully dirty double-entendre. Recomposing himself, he immediately stepped out of her way so she could enter the apartments.

He had been reading, she noticed, glancing into the bedroom as she breezed into his office. He'd left a book opened face down on the covers. She waited for him to follow her so she could launch into her well-rehearsed explanation on how she was there solely to engage in their ruse, for Ferelden's sake… until she saw how waxen his expression appeared.

"You do not look well at all."

"I haven't been sleeping much," he told her.

She examined him uneasily. Right before the siege in Adamant, things had become almost unbearable. She had placed her most trusted guards by his side at all hours of the day and night. He had been assailed by visions that rendered his eyes almost black and clouded his sight with invisible perils. He shifted between eerie stillness, a glazed expression over his face that unnerved her with its listlessness, and an agitated state where he appeared to be engaged in arguments with angry and accusatory voices.

The guards told her again and again how they'd had to wrestle him to the ground―three men one time―to keep him from succumbing to the deadly summons.

"It must be terrible," one of the guards had reported to her, as Alistair lay in his bed nearby.

"No," he weakly protested, overhearing them. "No… It is beautiful," he'd said, his face wild and exhausted.

But Adamant had been months ago.

"How bad is it?" she asked, staring at how his veins appeared so thick and prominent on his arms, his legs, even over his hands.

"It's not too bad during the day―I have plenty to keep me distracted then," he stated. "But at night, my head just spins." He raised his hands to his temples.

"Then you need a distraction," she concluded. "Something to occupy your mind."

He nodded, rubbing his shoulder as she watched him attentively.

"Reading helps," he said.

She wandered over to his bookcases: history books. Histories of Ferelden, the Grey Wardens, Templars, the Chantry.

They were all heavy, dry, indigestible tomes by all but the staunchest academics. She narrowed her eyes. "You have read all these?"

"Well, some I read…back at the Chantry. They were required reading when I was training―"

"I meant recently."

"I may have browsed through a few…flipped a few pages…" he continued nervously.

He was right. He was a terrible liar.

She glanced over at the book lying on his bed. It appeared to be a serial of sorts. The kind of trashy book that was popular among the soldiers.

"What is that?" she pointed.

"It's a book," he said sheepishly.

She squinted.

"Unless  _Hard in Hightown_ is a geological treatise, I am doubting it fits in with all the scholarly titles on your shelf," she challenged him. "Why do you have all these other books if you are reading something of that ilk?" she wondered.

"I couldn't very well have only ordered these serials." He indicated the bottom row of his shelf filled with books with evocative titles:  _The Masked Rider of Rivain, Behemoth from the Fade, Dagger for Hire, The Mark of the Golden Varghest._  "So I ordered these more… respectable titles," he waved at the top shelf, "so I could slip in these other ones. Then people could say, 'Yes, King Alistair has broad, eclectic reading tastes…" his voice faded as he noticed her standing still, her arms crossed. "You really don't need to stay," he told her apologetically.

She observed him with a trained eye.

"Do you wish me to leave?"

"No," he stated. "I merely thought…Do as you please," he amended courteously.

She had half a mind to return to her quarters, his rooms feeling strange and unfamiliar to her, but then he added,

"I do appreciate your company. This is harder to do when I am alone," he confessed.

"I'm hardly company," she retorted, pulling out the chair across from his desk.

He said nothing in reply. He did not dare. He was careful like that. Thoughtful. Never wanting to overstep his bounds. Or her bounds.  _Unlike Cailan_ , she frowned, remembering resentfully. He walked to the bed, taking the book in his hands and gingerly brushing his hand over its cover.

Without a further word, she sat on the chair and pretended to take in the room's decor with mild interest as he kept staring down at the serial's gaudy and flashy cover.

"So―what is your book about?" she finally asked, a hint of curiosity surfacing in her voice.

* * *

"Alistair," she began the following morning, in a hushed tone. They were walking down the stairwell to the main meeting hall. "Expect me in your quarters tonight."

He almost tripped.

She faced forward, a solemn expression over her fine features.

"It is best you not remain alone while you grapple with this ailment," she declared. "I will visit you…for as long as you are in its grasp," she explained.

"It's not as bad as other times. You needn't concern yourself with me," he reassured her, standing beside her before the large doors leading the the hall inside. A lady-in-waiting adjusted the long train of her dress.

"Suit yourself." She stared at the door, suppressing her disappointment. "I merely wanted to offer you some support. For Ferelden's sake," she said dryly.

His brow furrowed. The herald slipped between the door, ready to announce their arrival.

"I did not say I wouldn't take you up on it! Because…I will," he muttered to her crossly, over the herald's booming voice on the other side of the door.

"Good," she replied, surprised by the relief that overcame her. The great door opened before the majestic hall.

"Besides, I find your true motives suspect," he quipped, formally offering her his arm.

She shot him an alarmed glance as her hand alighted over his lower arm.

"I think you are just doing this because you can't wait to find out what happens to Donnen in  _Hard in Hightown,_ am I right?…" he smirked knowingly.

The faintest smile flashed across her lips as they processed down the central nave to their thrones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maker, bear with me, you good people. There's a part III.
> 
> Thank you for the insightful comments both here and on FF- I've enjoyed reading your thoughts on Anora, Alistair, what you perceived during your own playthroughs...Like I said before, I ended up surprising myself when I wrote this story arc. What really revved up my imagination was how they appeared together in Inquisition (if that was the world state you chose, obvs). I remember thinking: They haven't killed each other in these 10 years...and what's up with Anora actually leaving Denerim to accompany Alistair? And working with him? What could be going on there, hmmm?... Plot bunnies' ears shot right up and they began to circle me predatorily...


	17. Nation's Son (Part III)

**17: Nation's Son (Part III)**

"What you seek is seeking you."  
― Rumi

* * *

Every night they would read parts of  _Hard in Hightown_ together. She was loath to admit it, but she looked forward to the moment in the evening when she'd finally push away from her desk, her back stiff from leaning over and perusing through reports and briefings, and make her way down the hallway. There was something delightfully clandestine in how they both greeted each other with perfect formality as the guards looked on. The moment after the door closed behind them, however, was a different story.

"What took you so long? I was going to start reading all by myself!" he scolded her, hopping onto the bed.

They shared his bed, each keeping to a side, neither one breaching the implied boundary.

She kicked off her slippers, settling on her side.

"You'd better not! Besides, who would explain the big words to you?" she provoked.

"…Says the woman who thought that 'to be on the lam' involved actual lambs…"

She tapped at the open book with her indicator impatiently.

"Low vernacular was not one of my academic pursuits…Now, do read, my Lord!" she nettled.

"Yes, your Highness," he teased. "Far be it from me to keep you from Kirkwall's seedy underbelly…"

He would read aloud for a while and she would listen, her mind ablaze with the descriptions of a dark, dangerous, and enthralling Kirkwall, rife with intriguingly devious characters come to life.

"Alistair…What do you think people would say if they knew we were reading this every night?" she asked him once.

He grinned.

"I think they'd find it hard to believe."

"Then it's appropriate," she concluded.

He stared at her, expectantly.

" _Hard_  to believe?  _Hard in Hightown_?" she explained, impatiently.

He snorted.

"Does anyone else know how much more disgraceful your puns are compared to mine?

Whenever he read, she'd often interrupt and she relished how exasperated he'd get.

"That makes no sense!" she interjected one night.

He plunked the book down on his lap and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Here we go…"

"If they want to catch the murderer, all they have to do is link the smuggled artifacts found at the crime scene to the ship's manifest! I don't understand why Donnen is staking out the Tevinter estate!"

Alistair shot an incredulous glance at her. It made her giddy. At those times she felt they were just two ordinary people enjoying a story (or trying to, she suspected he'd grumble).

"Of course. Because a crime serial where all that happens is people cross checking a ship's manifest and then arresting some noble a few hours later would make for a much more gripping story!" Alistair informed her sarcastically. "You'd make a dreadful serial writer. Please keep your day job."

"You have to admit there are gaping plot holes…"

"But that's precisely what makes this so much fun! It's not  _real_."

Anora turned sideways to face him.

"I'd like to know when Donnen is finally going to express his feelings to Captain Belladonna."

"You've taken a liking to the pirate, haven't you?" he said amusedly.

"She's a strong, independent woman. I find I can relate to her—"

Alistair smiled broadly.

"I fail to see the humor," she retorted.

"You, the  _queen_ , identify with a  _pirate_. Let me repeat that in case any of the spies hiding beneath the bed missed the irony: The Queen of Ferelden sees facets of herself in the marauding—"

"She's a captain. A leader!" Anora insisted.

"Going about Kirkwall wearing no pants…" he added, giving her a side glance to gauge her reaction.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Where does it say that?"

He rubbed his face, chuckling.

"Please tell me that you know the term 'skirt' refers to 'woman' and not her 'rags.'"

She looked at him confused.

"Rags are the kerchiefs she wears on her head, no?"

At this he leaned forward, laughing freely.

"Ah…I think…" he continued, wiping away a tear. "I think we are reading two completely different books here…" he burst out laughing.

"Are you done?" She pretended to sulk. "And I so wanted to hear Donnen's confession already…"

"Would you like me to skip straight to the steamy parts?" he ribbed her.

"That's not what I implied at all!" she protested. "Besides, I think the author is just trying to tease the readers and prolong this tension between Donnen and Belladonna for as long as he can!"

She raised her hand to her mouth and yawned.

"I actually feel bad for poor Donnen." Alistair dogeared the book and set it over the nightstand. "Poor guy has no idea this beautiful, dashing captain could ever harbor feelings for him." He shut off the lantern and sank back down into the bed, resting his head on the pillow.

"That was clever," she muttered, sleep starting to overcome her.

"What do you mean?"

"You said 'harbor feelings.' And Belladonna is a ship captain…Do you see it? Harbor?… Captain…" her voice trailed off sleepily.

"Anora...I don't know whether to be amused or completely horrified that you are capable of making such terrible, terrible puns," he censured her playfully.

But she was already blissfully asleep.

* * *

One night she was the one who read out loud, instead. He found it very entertaining that she made such a show of it, sitting up on the bed so formally and holding up the book as if she were giving a rousing speech. At first she had stammered over the coarse language, but after a few passages, she was professing the most salty insults with the same aplomb she was used to uttering decrees with. She preferred it when he read, though—she could lose herself in the story, in the rich timbre of his voice, and steal glances at him, his handsome face in wrapt concentration. When she was reading, she was aware of his gaze upon her and it flustered her. Once, as she was about to flip over to a new page, she lifted her eyes from the text to find his lingering over her.

"You have very beautiful hair. You don't like to wear it down? It's so long…so fine…" he marveled.

"It gets in my way," she brushed off the compliment.

He settled back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head.

"The other thing you do," he struggled to find the words, "That braid... thingie... is beautiful, also. Although it looks like a lot of work every morning…" he mused.

She inhaled deeply.

"Was that an attempt at flattery?"

He suppressed a grin.

"It was just an observation."

"Good," she glanced back down at the book. "Because that would have been a poor attempt at 'picking woo,'" she stated haughtily.

He turned at her in surprise.

"Pardon?"

"Picking woo," she repeated, her brows furrowing. "Well!…Who doesn't know his street talk  _now_?" she mocked him triumphantly.

She startled as he nearly collapsed from laughing so hard.

"It's 'pitch woo,''" he corrected her between bouts of laughter.

She stared down at the book feeling completely foolish.

The feeling threatened to turn into something more acrid, as harsh thoughts surfaced.

 _Pathetic_ ,  _Anora. You are behaving unbecomingly. At least when you behaved as a queen he respected you—_

His hand swept across the bedspread and took hers, scattering the sharp thoughts, filling her with surprise. He was still chuckling, but his thumb caressed the back of her hand. She remained still, his hand having trespassed beyond their silently agreed-upon boundary.

"Maker…this book should come with a warning: do not try this at home," he grinned. "You wouldn't last an afternoon on the Kirkwall beat…Keep your—"

"...Day job," she sighed with resignation. "I know."

He released her hand gently and turned his brown eyes to her.

"I can hardly blame you for not knowing the jargon…And I'm sure you always had the 'pick' of any woo you may have wanted," he concluded lightheartedly.

She looked down, pretending to be focused on the book.

"I don't even know what that means," she muttered.

"Apparently Donnen doesn't either," he cracked another grin. "Would you please continue?" he urged her, nodding towards the book.

She gratefully launched into the next page, her voice level and clear even as her face blazed crimson, the warm touch of his hand imprinted tantalizingly on her memory.

* * *

She'd had to arrive at the main hall later than usual. An urgent, last-minute meeting earlier that morning had delayed her and she'd had to dispatch a messenger to inform Alistair he should proceed with the morning's business without her. As the herald announced her to the court, all the courtiers bowed and curtseyed as she passed...and yet she could sense the excitement, all eyes upon her as she processed down the aisle—the owner of one pair in particular had not let her out of his admiring sight from the moment she emerged into the room.

For the first time since either of her marriages, her shimmering golden hair cascaded loosely down her back, flowing gracefully behind her as she walked towards the king, who was personally awaiting her in lieu of the seneschal to escort her up the steps to the throne.

Gossip that afternoon told of how the queen was a vision of loveliness, with her fine gossamer tresses.

"My brother's neighbor's sister-in-law's nephew works as a footman for Lady Wulfric, and  _he_  said that  _she_  said the queen looked as beguiling as a faerie lass," the baker's wife told her customers.

Not one braid could be found in all of Denerim the next day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare I say it?
> 
> There's a part IV.
> 
> Thank you, friends- I really am loving your reactions to these two. Your comments are welcome and you, smart people, class up the joint. Thanks for indulging and encouraging me as I tell their story, even if it is taking longer than most of the stories here: it can't be rushed, can't be rushed... ;-)
> 
> I love film noir and good ol' Philip Marlowe style detective stories- it cracked me up to read Varric's chapters of Hard in Hightown. Bawdy embellishments and lingo are additions by yours truly. If you like the genre too, then you might like to Google this page: "Twists, Slugs and Roscoes: A Glossary of Hardboiled Slang."
> 
> I bet poor Anora could use it...


	18. Nation's Son (Part IV)

**Chapter 18 ~ Nation's Son (Part IV)**

“...as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened.”   
― Marguerite Duras

* * *

One morning she remarked his countenance appeared far healthier than it had in days.

His eyes were brighter and he seemed well rested. She observed him, trying to glimpse any of the signs the malaise still lurked, waiting to manifest itself as the day changed into afternoon and gradually slipped into evening.

That same night she made the nocturnal procession to his quarters and he greeted her as usual, but that night he did not strike her as burdened, tired, or even pale. He had not changed for bed yet and she had the distinct impression she was intruding, as she stood before him in her dressing gown.

"You seem recovered from your affliction," she noted, still hesitating in his parlor.

"It appears to be lifting...at least until the next time it strikes," he surmised, waiting for her by his office door. "It comes and goes."

She nodded, relieved, but also feeling a tug of regret over the significance of the revelation.

"I am glad to hear you feel better," she told him cordially. "And since that is the case… I should leave you at your leisure."

"You are leaving?" Alistair's face clouded. "Already?"

Silence between them had always been exactly that: quiet. It was a mutual agreement not to intrude, restraint so that certain thoughts remained insubstantial, far away from words that were best never uttered. But that night the silence between them roared. They had reached an impasse and did not know how to extricate themselves. He watched her with a pained expression as she hovered by the parlor's door.

"You have no need for a distraction now that you feel better," she finally explained.

"Well, my…my head!" he pat his forehead. "It still aches a bit."

He was lying, of course. She could tell very easily and as much as she wanted to offer him one of her customary signs of reproach— a short huff, an eye roll— she couldn't. She found his attempt to stall her departure endearing. It made her want to stay…and if she remained, what did it mean? She had, after all, said she would leave once he recovered.

"Good night, Alistair."

"Good night?" It sounded more like grief over an unexpected turn of events than a question.

She moved determinedly towards the door, unable to grasp why the thought of returning to her own rooms flooded her with a disheartening dread.

"Wait!" he called to her.

She found him standing by the bedroom entrance brandishing the copy of _Hard in Hightown_ at her.

"Won't you stay?...We should at least finish reading the book."

He stared at her expectantly.

"Very well," she eventually agreed, stepping back into the room. "We really should finish it…"

It was a most reasonable request, she told herself, reviving at the thought.

* * *

The book was drawing to its inevitable conclusion. There were only a few last chapters left—only a matter of pages. She observed him leaf to the final chapters with trepidation.

"Alistair," she interrupted him, knowing they were about the reach the next-to-last chapter. "I don't know that I want to read tonight," she declared pensively, to his surprise. "Why don't you put the book away and perhaps we could do something else," she suggested.

He promptly slipped the book over his nightstand.

"Do you know any games?" she asked.

" 'Coin, Beggar, Satchel'?" he suggested.

"That's a young child's game!" She raised her eyebrows at him.

"I happen to be quite good at it," he said, slightly offended.

"I have no doubt… Do you play any board games?" she tried.

"Never really learned properly," he admitted. "I was never a templar― or Grey Warden, for that matter― of leisure." He rubbed his chin. "What about cards?"

"I can play some games. I am excellent at King's Knot."

"Hmm…That requires four people. What about… Do you know how to play Wicked Grace?" he asked offhandedly.

"Never learned it. It's considered beneath the court, you know," she sniffed. He rose from the bed and began to search through the drawers in his desk. "What are you doing?"

"I am going to teach you how to play. Now, I never learned to play as well as the two rogues who taught me back in the day, but I can hold my own...I had a deck here somewhere―it has come in handy a few times during longer layovers..." he told her.

"I heard it's an ignoble gambling game that requires very little intellect."

Although her tone suggested mild disdain, her heart was racing.

"Hmm..."he nodded, pulling out a deck of cards in a small case from a drawer. "Then I am sure you think you will have no trouble defeating me."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Is this a challenge?"

"Just a remark..." he said casually.

"Let's see, then," she acknowledged the cards in his hands with a businesslike nod.

* * *

For a couple nights they played cards. On the second night, Alistair had goaded her into wagering not coin, but obligations.

It was how Anora swiftly found herself saddled with two christenings, a Chantry charity event, and a dinner with delegates from the Free Marches ("You can tell them all you've learned about Kirkwall!" he'd riled her as he collected the cards after his victory). She had the impression Alistair was using the card game to foist his calendar of social duties on her.

"I am done playing this game," she told him, peeved at her latest loss. "I am not cut out for this."

"It is a shame," he told her. "I still have a few events I can't wait to get out of..."

He stashed the cards away and leaned back in his chair.

"What would you like to do now?"

The book loomed ominously next to them.

"I suppose we should finish _Hard in Hightown_ ," she sighed resignedly.

He looked at the book uneasily.

"Yes...we should," he agreed with an equal measure of gloom.

She climbed on the canopied bed, leaning comfortably against the pillows. He handed her the heavy tome.

"Here, you read tonight," he declared almost despondently.

She took the book and paged towards the final chapters. He also rested over the pillows on his side of the bed, watching her attentively, taking in her eyes, as azure as the sky on a spring day, her hair, flaxen and wavy over her shoulders, and her full rose lips as she began to read.

As reticent as she'd been to read the book, it was a good chapter―Donnen and Belladonna were in pursuit of the main suspect through the labyrinthine streets of Lowtown. At one point they found themselves in an abandoned warehouse, their suspect managing to elude them through a back door. Donnen began to express his anger and frustration and Belladonna simply cut him off mid sentence with a kiss.

"Finally!"They both cheered, interrupting the reading.

She glanced back at the page, hoping to read a proper confession from either one of them, but instead found that the author had eschewed dialogue for description.

Very explicit description.

Her eyes browsed the passage and she found herself unable to read beyond Donnen tearing Belladonna's corset off and flicking his tongue over her aroused—

"Alistair, I can't read further," she faltered, her cheeks stinging.

"Too blue?" he wondered, his face betraying some amusement.

He took the book from her hands and sought the passage she had interrupted. He read to himself in silence, his eyes boggling at the subsequent pages. "Maker...the author pulled out all the stops..." he mumbled in mild shock. "I don't think I can read this out loud either," he told her, rubbing his cheek, bewildered.

She exhaled impatiently while contemplating his face.

"It's a shame… We've waited so long for those two to finally sort out their feelings," she mused. "It's not very satisfying if we just skip over it either, is it?"

"They have been through enough," he agreed. "They do deserve a happy ending."

Anora contemplated him seriously.

"Then…Why don't you give me an idea of what happens?" she suggested.

"What? Like a summary?" he wondered, glancing back at the pages of the book.

"No," she said in a low voice, slowly removing the book from his hands, placing it aside, and sliding nearer to him. "Show me," she whispered. They were so close she could feel the warmth of their breaths mingling for a few inebriating moments before he crushed her to his chest and sought her lips lustily.

* * *

"This might possibly be the best book ever written," Alistair murmured later, languidly caressing her smooth naked back as she lay peacefully in his arms.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst: There is Chapter V and that's the truth.


	19. Nation's Son (Part V)

One of Anora's maids was singing a song very softly while brushing her hair. Her rooms were bright and airy, and on that particular day the scent of lilacs insinuated itself throughout the rooms. It was a sweet scent and she inhaled it deeply. She laid down the cup of tea she had been sipping, making a mental checklist of the morning meetings she had scheduled. There was the Antivan contract matter she had been dreading- she had been going back and forth with their negotiators for weeks. She knew her legal advisers could be shrewd, but she liked to look over any of the many cumbersome and tedious addenda. Antivans were clever and quick to extricate themselves or entrap others on the basis of the interpretation of semantics. She had to think like a crafty Antivan if she wanted to assure herself she wouldn't find the kingdom stuck in an unfortunate deal.

"Your Majesty, have you decided on the gown you wish to wear for your event tonight?

She looked at her maid through the mirror on her dresser.

"I'll decide on it later," she sighed. The event was a consequence of one of the losses she incurred during her foray into a very short-lived gambling career.

"Very good, Your Highness," she nodded, running the brush through another section of her hair.

Anora looked up at the mirror again, staring at the billowing curtains in the pleasant morning breeze, suddenly regretting Alistair wasn't there at that very moment. She wanted to tease him about having to go to the event that night and wondered if it would fluster him or if he would have some irreverent quip for her. She would enjoy either reaction, she realized, running her fingers along her teacup's gold trimmed rim. He hadn't let her leave the bed that morning, she recalled, grinning at the memory of his arms encircling her waist as she'd tried to sit up on the bed, dragging her to his side, claiming that it was too early, that Antivans were never on time, that she shouldn't rush the court, since people deserved to have their toast and jam in peace...All very amusing subterfuges she indulged for a bit. As she'd prepared to open the door, outside of which stood the guards awaiting to escort her past the usual throng of heralds, maids, pages, and messengers dallying in the hall, waiting to begin the morning's business, he had seized her by the wrist and gently pulled her back into a last embrace. He'd said to her,

"I wish nights lasted longer."

Her maid continued humming and singing, adjusting the combs in her hair. It was quite the silly song, with verses laden with common platitudes such as, "Of all the lads I see, none is beloved as much as thee," but it was filled with longing for an absent sweetheart.

"What song is that?" Anora asked suddenly.

"Oh, Your Highness! I didn't even realize I was singing it!" she interjected apologetically. "It's just a song bards busking in the market have been singing for the past few days. It's become quite popular."

It was strange, she thought. Such songs had never appealed to her. They seemed foolish and impossible. They had no more to do with her than a fairy tale did: such feelings and emotions belonged there, in the realm of make believe and whimsy. Whenever she heard those kinds of songs, the words would drift through her mind as if foreign and while she may have fleetingly pondered at their significance, she ultimately dismissed them completely as inscrutable.

But that morning, as she wished very much that Alistair were there, it was as if she could nod her head sympathetically at the song's simple sentiment, the strange code broken, surprisingly bittersweet.

"It's nice," Anora told her. "Carry on."

* * *

The Antivan diplomat seemed aggravated in the way Antivans usually expressed displeasure: he was smiling. She pointed out to him the phrasing that would burden Fereldan merchants with a very unfavorable exchange rate.

"But it doesn't necessarily mean-"

"If there is room for interpretation, then there is a problem," she'd interrupted impatiently. "We cannot ratify this until it is properly amended.

The diplomat's smile remained frozen on his calculating face. Who knew who he'd be letting down, what deals he'd have to forfeit, to correct that "mistake."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I will have it amended immediately. We shall be able to sign it still today," he informed her.

As he left the meeting table, Anora tilted her head and rubbed her neck. Across from her, Alistair sat, along with a handful of advisers.

"Well met, Your Highness," one of her most senior contract advisers commended her. "There is room for interpretation, but we all know whom these matters tend to favor when Antiva is involved."

"Perhaps Antiva should keep its pickpocketing ways in Antiva...I will not see our traders and merchants cheated thus."

"We had read over it several times, and confess we hadn't thought of the wording as problematic. You are most right," another adviser told her.

"One of us has to be," she said with a hint of annoyance.

_They should have picked up on the wording_ , she frowned to herself.

"Tell the ambassador that we will sign nothing until the entire document is proofread one more time."

"Shall we bring you the new document for evaluation?"

"Me?" she cried. "Absolutely not! I am otherwise engaged."

The advisers looked at each other uneasily.

"Since you are paid, handsomely, I might add, to be watchful of such incidences, you will reread the entire document carefully, flagging any inconsistencies and passages that could be open to interpretation. Summon  _all_  the legal advisers. I want your findings reported tomorrow morning."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," the man added contritely. "Shall we tell the good ambassador you will sign after reviewing the new-"

"Tell him what you wish, but I will review nothing," she said in an incensed tone. "If I must review every single contract received ... now thrice for this one... and find each time clauses and wordings that are to our country's disadvantage, I will be in very poor spirits and quite inclined to make some drastic changes," she stated ominously.

"Of course, Your Highness," the man said appeasingly. "We assure you that when you sign the contract at last, it will have been reviewed and reviewed until any potential difficulties are identified and corrected."

"You must," she said threateningly to them all. "Because you will answer to the Crown if there are any failings in this last version."

She dismissed the men hastily, displeased with their performance. They lingered briefly at the meeting table before rushing off to wherever else they were expected.

"They grow lazy," she lamented to Alistair. "As long as their coin pouches jingle, they do not care."

"I can see you are quite angry..."

"Sometimes I wonder if I am surrounded by incompetent fools," she exhaled."It is fortunate I am such an attentive, careful reader," she added.

"You are a most wondrous reader," he grinned, his eyes warm, his voice lower.

She felt the anger subside, more pleasant thoughts emerging.

"Alas, while I may excel at reading, I am not as successful at cards; tonight I pay one of my bets off and attend YOUR charity event," she censured him in a teasing tone.

"It is tonight? That's right! It's the Chantry event." He arched an eyebrow. "There will be speeches, you know...Long winded and quite delusional," he expressed regretfully.

She groaned.

"And the food is traditional fare from the Bannorn: boiled, poached, and blanched. Usually all three at once!" he warned.

"Foolishness has a cost," she sighed.

"And you shouldn't forget it," he said proudly. "And I won't let you forget it... because I will be attending with you," he said.

She looked at him in surprise.

"It's too cruel to inflict upon you," he said, smiling. "You will need an ally in this endeavor...some support. I humbly offer myself for the task. In fact, I will be attending all those events you lost to me with you."

"How altruistic..." She raised her eyebrows at him.

"It's for Ferelden," he told her solemnly. "Actually, no. It isn't. I have ulterior motives."

She feigned surprise.

"Do explain!"

"I really had just wanted to ask you to to accompany me...But the game was a perfect ruse to make sure you would not be able to refuse me," he admitted.

She pretended to be mildly outraged.

"And you were so sure you would beat me?"

"Aye, my Lady. To attain such a boon I was willing to be most ruthless..." he grinned charmingly.

Despite herself, she found herself returning the grin.

* * *

_The last chapter,_ she grimaced.

There was a tantalizing tension in the air that night, between what had occurred between them the previous night and the realization that after that evening, their paltry excuse for meeting would be gone.

"Do you wish to play a game instead?" she offered, sensing his glumness.

"No," he shook his head. "Let's finish the book. I'd like to know how it'll end."

She encouraged him to do the honors and listened as the story came to an astounding, climatic finale, complete with fires and battles in the streets. At the last words in the book, he slammed the cover shut.

They sat wordlessly. She felt an emotion she didn't quite understand, something that tugged at her as she contemplated the morose expression on his still face, his eyes downcast. Everything indicated he did not wish her to leave. And yet, he wouldn't tell her, he wouldn't ask. He wouldn't impose his will upon her.

"And with that, I relieve you from your obligations," he said quietly.

He never would, she realized. Because unlike her first husband, he was gentle and kind, considerate and thoughtful.

She continued to stare pensively at his saddened expression. He finally looked up again when she rose from the chair, perusing his bookshelves. He watched her crouch, gracefully tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, before running a finger along the spines of the various serials packed at the bottom shelf. She paused before one and wriggled it out from between the other books. With a self-assured gait, she stepped back into the bedroom and stopping before him, dropped a gigantic tome onto his lap.

_Swords and Shields._ The first two volumes.

"Well, my Lord: I do not relieve you from yours. I want you to read me this, next," she ordered him, with an innocent expression.

He chuckled at last, his gaze tender as his arms gathered her closely to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue next...


	20. Nation's Son (Part VI- Epilogue)

The lull in the tedious proceedings that morning was welcome. Anora shifted in her throne resigned to wasting the entire glorious spring morning in that dull captivity. The case was one that had escalated to the point that the Crown had been required to intervene. A simple farmers' dispute over contested land had somehow grown to engulf two arlings, almost the entire Bannorn, and even pit several courtiers against each other. It was enough. The solution to the matter was simple, as far as she could tell. She had ordered that the surveyor's records of the original land boundaries be located in the court's archive.

That no one had bothered to verify the original records annoyed her to no end. Instead, they'd had made her suffer through claims based on sentimentality.

As she settled back on her throne, resting her hands over the armrests, she stole a glance at Alistair, sitting beside her, his crown fitted imposingly over his head. She wondered if he was daydreaming of his days of wandering through Ferelden, free and distant from the daily incidences at court.

Unlike Alistair, Cailan hadn't had any patience for the minutiae of ruling, for the little, seemingly insignificant details that affected the daily lives of the people. He had been only partially right when he stated that successful rulers performed heroic, epic deeds. What he had failed to understand was that there was heroism in fighting the smaller battles on the home front: squabbling nobles, skewed trade agreements, borders that needed patrolling, offering aid to displaced, unemployed, and under-educated elves, appeasing a Chantry in disarray...the challenges were endless.

His fingers tapped over the end of the throne's padded armrest, very close to her own. As if sensing her gaze upon him, his fingers brushed against hers, a furtive caress before the entire court.

_He might have been the bastard, but he's more noble than the legitimate heir ever was._

"Alistair," she whispered, watching grown men sulk at each other from across the room as they awaited for the records to arrive.

He leaned in closer.

"I will not come to your quarters tonight," she declared, speaking into his ear. He turned his head to face her, a protest forming over his lips. "I miss my rooms' comforts; I want you to come to them instead," she quickly explained.

"Very well," he conceded. "I will visit you tonight, then."

"No," she continued, shaking her head slightly.

He appeared utterly dismayed.

She took a deep breath mustering her courage. "Not just tonight. Thalissa will begin moving your personal effects into my quarters this afternoon. Your valet will need to assist her," she informed him.

He blinked a few times.

"Is that acceptable to you?" she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Y- yes!" he finally managed to stammer. He looked ahead, as if in a daze. "Are you sure? You won't tire of seeing me every night...day? I am just down the hall—"

"If the arrangement doesn't appeal to you—" she said nervously.

"No, no! I would like that," he interrupted eagerly. "I'm surprised, is all." He looked ahead. "Maker!" he whispered, a smile emerging on his lips. "I know...You are only doing this for Ferelden," he teased her, his delight in her proposal evident.

"Aye, my Lord," she said with an exaggerated formality. "T'is for my love of Ferelden."

Her hand brushed back affectionately against his and she continued.

"But do you not understand?" She turned her clear gaze resolutely to his warm brown eyes. " _You,_ my Lord _,_   _are_  Ferelden."

* * *

There was no end to the idiotic grins plastered over the faces of the many delegates in the room despite the animosity they were feeling for each other that morning. Later on they would be responsible for spreading the gossip that would make the run of the market square, inns, shops, and taverns. After all, they had witnessed a precious, intimate moment between their beloved monarchs. The king, they saw, had leaned in, as if engaging in a private conversation with the queen, but turned to kiss her cheek, instead. He then took her hand firmly in his and whispered something into her ear.

At his words, the queen had closed her eyes and smiled joyfully.


	21. Setheneran

"Some things have to be believed to be seen."

― Madeleine L'Engle

* * *

Before the Blight, years ago, when Maura was still a child, she began to have the dreams. They were wondrous and filled her with amazement and some confusion, for if in her sleep her feet slapped over the cool marble floors of long-forgotten corridors, in waking she lived in a dim and cramped tenement in Denerim's alienage with her mother, father, two brothers and three sisters. It was only when she was older, at seventeen, and told her mother she had seen the face of their deceased Hahren, Garavan, that her mother had taken pause and appeared truly frightened. She had told her mother how the man had appeared to her uttering the words he had so often given them all to sustain their spirits. But he was no longer feeble, nor weak, nor the hollow shell he'd been when the winter illness lodged in his chest and stole his breath. In the dream he was fierce, a lion of fire, his mane of flames blazing.

"I'd rather miss you than mourn you," her mother had told her with a heavy heart when they stopped before the rundown doorway of the matchmaker's house.

Her father had been quite eager to send her off to the Circle.

"How much worse can it be than this?" he'd wondered, indicating the small, stuffy space they all had to share.

Her mother, however, hadn't been convinced that it would be a better solution. She had taken Maura to one of the Dalish keepers when she heard of their caravan stationed on the outskirts of the city, and offered the woman all the coin she was able to scratch up.

Maura had found the caravan a bit suspect— they were a small clan offering to perform ordinary tasks for modest fees. The so-called Keeper was blind in one eye and reeked of drink.

"They're Dalish; they are more connected to the old ways," her mother had assured her, urging her onto the woman's aravel.

The aravel was packed with heaps of old clothes and randomly amassed objects of dubious usefulness. It was all treasure jealously kept by one who believed they might someday be of use. The aravel smelled stale and grimy.

But when the woman had touched her forehead, a burst of light had engulfed her field of vision, and she had felt a surge of energy tingle through her.

"Not a mage," the woman had told her mother afterwards. "Not exactly, anyway. Whatever power she has, it only offers her glimpses. She has a connection to the Fade...We all do, you know. Mages more than ordinary folk. But she is somewhere in between: neither ordinary… nor magic."

"Is she in any danger?" her mother had asked cautiously.

The old woman snorted.

"I did what you asked and verified whether or not she had magic in her. If you'd like a proper reading of her future, that will cost you extra."

Later on her mother had told her, "There are only two things worse than being an elf: an elf with magic ...and an elf with beauty. You, my darling, are enough of both that misfortune will claim you."

Her mother was painfully aware of the lascivious looks Maura would garner wandering the market. Shem vendors talked to her a bit too freely, their eyes leering.

Her mother and father decided that Maura would have to be married, and paid the matchmaker to find her a husband, preferably an elf living outside an alienage, far from Denerim. They wanted one of homesteaders, young men who claimed unruly, untamed patches of deserted, desolate land to call their own. They fought off bandits and the occasional Darkspawn scouts, but that was preferable to life among the Shem. At least the homesteaders had a fighting chance against highwaymen and Darkspawn.

Ushel was eight years older than she and had a farm in some Maker-forsaken corner of the Hinterlands. He was in a rush to return to his farm with a wife before winter arrived to the mountainous region. When the matchmaker told him about her, the only thing he'd wanted to know was if she was healthy and accustomed to hard work. He'd wanted to waive their pre-arranged introduction, agreeing to wed her the following morning. He'd appeared surprised when the matchmaker insisted on the meeting.

"Perhaps," the matchmaker had scolded him, "your bride-to-be might want to have a say in the matter?

When Maura first laid eyes on him, her heart sank. He was nothing like the dashing young men in the alienage. They wore their hair long and sported tiny golden hoops pierced through their ears. Ushel kept his hair trimmed short and wore a wide brimmed straw hat.

_Taciturn, rather quiet, and not one bit enticing, she found._

He was decidedly unromantic, she concluded, giving the matchmaker a discreet signal to indicate her decision and the end of the introduction.

Her mother had said nothing of her refusal, nor had she responded to any of Maura's peeved ranting all the way back to their tenement. It was only later, when her father heard about the meeting, that she realized what she had done. By rejecting her suitor, she would forfeit the hefty matchmaker's fee; if she wanted another chance at a different suitor, she would have to pay a new fee. Her father had expressed far less patience towards her, yelling as her mother cried and her siblings cowered in a corner.

"Do you think we live in luxury here?" he'd accused, incensed. "Selfish girl!" he shouted. "You think yourself too good for an honest, hardworking elf? You think you are better off here? Let me give you the choices you are faced with: a life locked away in the Circle, living in darkness, in fear of demons and abominations, or living as the mistress of one of these wretched Shems who prey on our people with impunity. Once you are no longer found charming or amusing, once you are replaced by the younger version of yourself―and make no mistake, love, those are common and plentiful around here—you will have been properly degraded and broken in for the whorehouse!"

He pointed at her mother.

"Your mother can't protect you forever. Not when she is about to give me yet another mouth to feed."

Maura turned around in surprise. She could see how careworn she'd grown, how fatigued. It wasn't just the pregnancy, though―it was the worry. The constant, unrelenting worry.

"You speak as if it were all her doing! You are the one who should have kept your pants on—" she yelled back defiantly, without thinking.

A heavy fist swung out, striking her cheek, causing her to stumble backwards, wincing from the sudden blast of pain.

"Aye, I should have kept my pants on the night you came about, wretched lass!" he bellowed, tugging on his coat and stepping out of the room.

She gathered her few earthly belongings in a frenzy of anger, feeling her face pulse from the swelling beneath her eye. Her mother and siblings wept, her youngest brother's hands gripped and tugged at the hem of her shirt, but all she could think of was getting away from that man, that mean bastard. Anything was better than spending yet another evening in his presence.

"I'm going back to the matchmaker," she whispered reassuringly into her mother's ear, as she bent over to hug her farewell.

The wailing had grown unbearable and she had to leave immediately, before they all succeeded in weakening her resolve. She glanced upon her family and home for the last time before slamming the door behind her.

She moved swiftly through the familiar streets, dodging the occasional stroller and wanderer, moving with such determination and impelled by so much bitterness that people instinctively stepped out of her way. She realized she probably cut a mean figure too: her face settled in a scowl, the bruise a deep shade of red, and her dark, disheveled hair whipping behind her. She looked like enough of a raving madwoman that she was safe wandering through the streets of the alienage at that late hour.

When she pounded on the matchmaker's door, she did so with an urgent, heavy first, until the old woman appeared at the doorway, bewildered, only to curse her under the night sky.

"Where is he?" Maura demanded, unyielding.

* * *

She made her way to the modest inn he was lodged in and dashed past the innkeeper, barging up the stairs, pounding on each door, calling for Ushel.

He flung his bedroom door open with a bang, terribly embarrassed at the commotion, not able to imagine by whom or why he was being summoned. When he saw her standing there before him, all her belongings in two bundles in each hand, with a bruised cheek and the entire staff of the inn scurrying behind her, he fell into a stunned silence.

"Have you found another bride?" she asked him, fighting the disappointment that he was shorter than she was.

"No," he said curtly, crossing his arms.

"Then I will be your bride," she said with determination. "I will marry you and work on your farm. I will work hard," she promised. "Just take me away from here."

Her gaze did not waver from his and was almost defiant under his scrutiny. She felt a twinge of regret over her impulsiveness, suddenly wishing she had been more sanguine in her approach. But after a long moment, he merely stepped aside and let her enter his bedroom.

* * *

Ushel, she learned, was not a talkative man. Maybe he had grown used to living alone in that wilderness. He had little patience for her prattling and those early days were trying. After a long day of work he liked to smoke his pipe and read one of the few books they had in front of the fire. She grew annoyed and bored, but if she complained, he threatened to give her more work, for if she still had enough energy to be so lively and contentious after a long day, then she couldn't be working hard enough, he surmised.

When they first arrived on the hilltop where their modest house stood, her mouth had gone dry. It was small and dark. Back then he only had a few chickens, the goats, and the large plot of land to farm―no team of horses, no other livestock. Mornings began early and she found her eyelids heavy soon after the sun set. There was much to learn about her new life. He taught her not only how to perform her day-to-day tasks, he also taught her how to shoot a crossbow and never leave the farmhouse without it. He showed her the land, the various trails, where to find other sources of water, which direction to flee, should they find themselves under attack and separated.

One afternoon, as they cut through the forest back to the house, late in the fall already, they wandered past some ruins. At the center of a rocky clearing was the cracked stone statue of a great wolf. He sat regally, watchful. She half expected the stone to heave a breath and the wolf to burst forward in pursuit of whatever held its unwavering attention. She had never seen such a thing, but knew, from the writing, which she couldn't read, it was an old Elven statue.

"What is this?" she asked, fascinated.

Ushel had glanced at the statue with thinly veiled disdain. Instead of giving her a reply, he marched forward and spat contemptuously before the image of the wolf. She stared at him in confusion, not grasping what had just transpired.

"That was Fen'Harel," Ushel told her sullenly as they approached the farmhouse.

"Who?" she wondered.

"Don't you know?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "One of the Elven gods."

"Oh?" she said, suddenly nervous.

She felt uneasy anytime there was talk of the gods. It reminded her of her dreams, of what the old Dalish keeper had told her mother, of her connection to the Fade. She worried that talk of the gods would trigger her dreams— and she didn't want to dream those dreams anymore. She hadn't had any of those strange dreams in a while.

"The Dreadwolf," Ushel continued. "He betrayed our gods, he betrayed the Dalish," he said contemptuously. "He alone is responsible for the downfall of our people."

Maura had been raised without any faith. Her mother felt a sense of reverence for their past, for their history, and believed the Dalish to be wise and pure, but she hadn't encouraged any of her children to learn about the gods, to speak Elvish, to claim any stakes to their heritage. Besides, at the alienage, if one wished to fill a belly with warm soup, it was the Maker they had to curry favor with. The Chantry was irrevocably enmeshed in their lives. She knew more about the Maker and Andraste, whose holy festival days offered hope that they wouldn't go hungry that day.

Her husband was a man of faith, she knew. He lamented that much of what he knew of their heritage he had learned from books by Shems. Still, he kept the traditions he knew as best he could. When they had been married in Denerim, in a hasty ceremony presided by a record keeper at the civil registrar at the alienage, there had been nothing sacred about the proceedings. A small line formed behind them: a woman waited to register the birth of her child, an older elf wanted to lodge a complaint against his landlord, another was complaining about something or another. They'd hastily professed their wedding vows in the din of the registrar's office: squawking newborns, hacking coughs, and indignant complaints had been their witnesses. But as they left the city, in the cart with the team of horses he'd borrowed, he'd placed a garland of fresh flowers on her head and pulled out two golden rings from his pocket.

"I didn't dare take these while we were in there. Might have ended up in a ditch with my throat cut," he confided. "Do you know what they mean?" he asked, proudly.

"Wedding rings," she answered.

"Not just wedding rings," he said. "These are Lath Enansal. By exchanging these we promise to be together…always," he explained, looking ahead as he lead the horses over the dusty path, up the hill, the city fading away behind them in the distance. He looked again at her. "Do you wish to exchange rings with me?" he asked.

 _Maybe not so unromantic,_  she realized.

"Sure," she shrugged.

He slipped a golden ring on her finger and then handed her a second ring that she twirled onto his own finger. "I meant to exchange these with you…later on. But today is as good a time as any. These belonged to my parents. And to their parents before that…and before that…and before…"

The rings were solid gold, she realized, admiring hers. She'd never had anything so fine in her life.

"Always is a long time to be with someone. And how do you know you'll want to be with me that long? We've only just met," she wondered.

He remained silent and for a moment she thought she had offended him. She would come to learn that Ushel was one to ponder his words and choices lengthily, but once he had made up his mind, he was certain and stubborn. He replied minutes later,

"Well, now that we are married—in this world and in the next—we'll have time to find out—"

"—And regret it!" she snickered, amused.

"—And make it better," he completed, loudly, giving her a reprimanding look out of the corner of his eyes.

In those early days, she would often wander to the clearing to examine the great statue, to peer into its cold stone eyes. She tore down the overgrowth that engulfed the base of the statue, ripping at the tendrils of vines that wrapped themselves over the rock, ropey veins over the weathered, pitted surface. She cleared them out, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

"You are free to go, now!" she'd announced playfully. "Go run free! Fetch me a hare for dinner, if you remember," she'd laughed.

She didn't know why, but she liked to tend to the statue—keep it clear of weeds and sometimes leave flowers, or pine cones, and other whimsical things she'd chanced to encounter in her walks down before the great wolf's paws. Ushel did not understand in the least bit why she did such a thing.

"He's the Betrayer," he hissed one afternoon, watching her walk back from the clearing's trail.

Enough was enough.

He was just the statue of a wolf placed there by people much like herself many centuries ago. For all he was accused of doing, was he not paying the price as much as they? Like all of them, he looked a little worse for wear, his altar abandoned, his libations forgotten and praises unsung. Not a desirable fate for a god, she thought, even though she did not believe in such things.

"And didn't you yourself say that most of what you know about the old days comes straight from Shems?" she asked confrontationally.

Ushel had nodded, taken aback by her passionate arguing.

"And how many times have they born false witness against us?" she challenged him. "How many elves sit in cells in Denerim accused of things they did not do? You count your coin twice in any dealings with Shems, yet you would take their word unquestioningly?"

"How many elves sit in cells in Denerim accused of things they  _did_  do?" he asked her straightforwardly.

She hesitated.

"Well, yes…There are many of those, too…but they commit their crimes because they are left with little choice—"

"No," he argued. "There is always choice."

"Yes: which side of the street to die of hunger or illness on," she grumbled.

"Perhaps… But, again," Ushel pointed at the statue, "You can blame all that on him."

She snorted at him crossly.

"So like a Shem!" she stormed past him.

Maura remembered her mother's simple faith, accepting of things greater than herself and surrendering to their mystery. "You, like the Shems, believe yourself able to understand the reasons that compel the actions of gods?"

Ushel had no retort for that. He remained silent until they arrived at their farmhouse.

"He betrayed all the other gods," he weakly protested.

"Were you there to see it with your own eyes?" she asked him.

"Of course not!" he replied dismissively.

"I don't believe in any of this, but if I did, I would know better and give him the benefit of the doubt. I tend to judge people by how they act towards me, not what I've heard about them," she quipped angrily.

She didn't know why she was so angry—she just was.

He sighed heavily and tossed down his hat by the hearth, scratching his head in thought. She awaited his words, arms crossed, ready to take him on. Instead, a crooked grin spread over his lips.

"Ah…what have I done? An eternity of this, you mad woman."

She tried to maintain her cross expression, and even glanced away. Instead, she burst out laughing, her laughter mingling with his.

By the end of the long winter, she was heavy with their first son.

* * *

She dreamt. She never really stopped dreaming, but some dreams were different, and those were rarer, but always memorable. She dreamt of impossible things: palaces of singing stone, clouds that amassed together in the sky and rose up as smoky armies, the court of a sea queen where she could breathe among the sea life just as sure as she could wander among the trees on the farm, and voices that called to her in languages she couldn't speak, but understood as long as her eyes remained shut.

There were other, darker dreams, though. The ones she always feared. In those there were swaths of fire over the earth and thunder that rumbled.

The soil crusted like a mound of ashes.

The sky tore and bled. At first it resembled an eye, weeping, but the rip widened and out of it fell a darkness that consumed the world.

She would often dream of a breeze carrying a shimmering cloud that would envelop her.

 _What is that?_  she'd wonder, her eyes drawn to the cloud spiraling towards the sky; it was brilliant and alluring and she yearned to taste it, be immersed in it.

_Lyrium._

_They come._

She never knew who revealed such things to her, or if it was something she just knew like one knows things intrinsically in dreams. In the distance, between the long, unnatural trunks of the nightmare trees, she thought she could glimpse, if only she was very quiet, very still, the silent roaming shadow of a great wolf.

* * *

They'd survived many things. Harsh winters. Poor crops. The Blight. And now, the great rift in the sky. Thankfully their their sons were grown— her older one worked at the docks, loading and unloading the large merchant ships back in Denerim. He had a wife and a little one of his own, and as far as she could tell, from the fairly regular missives she received, was well. Her younger son had also traveled more recently to Lothering seeking work and perhaps more friends, even a wife. There was little for a young man like him on a farm. It had upset Maura to see him go, but Ushel was sure he would someday return.

"He'll find his path. It may take him longer: he is obstinate and opinionated…much like his mother," Ushel told her, half annoyed, half amused.

They had survived so many improbable things, had risked so much more, that when the conflict between the mages and the templars spilled into the Hinterlands, Ushel had reassured her that as long as they did not get involved, they would be fine.

And she believed him.

When a group of templars took shelter near Dwarfson's Pass, Ushel and a couple other homesteaders had gone to meet them. There was a tacit understanding that as long as they did not support the mages, the templars would give them a wide berth and offer them protection. They were big, burly men, well armed and supposedly devout Andrasteans. She didn't like their rough voices, their raucous laughter. To her they seemed to be careening, on the verge of unhinging. Once they had come to the farm to trade fish for some eggs and milk. Ushel had sullenly accepted the trade, and while he fetched them their share, they remained in the kitchen with her.

"Do you smell that?" one of them said.

They sniffed the air. She'd waited uneasily.

"Is it what I think it is?" one of them stated hopefully.

"It's very faint…"

"Lyrium…" another said reverently.

Her heart beat rapidly, so much so that her hands began to tremble despite her stern orders to calm herself.

"Do you have any caches of lyrium hidden here, perchance?" one of the templars asked, half jokingly, with a savage grin.

"No. Let us step outside," she ordered them. "My husband will meet you soon."

She recognized the symptoms easily. She had seen many like them: ragged faces, disheveled appearances, soldiers only in weaponry and bulk, any adherence to discipline abandoned long ago. Their red rimmed eyes darted nervously about, the sweaty clammy skin, the shaking, unsteady hands: they were lyrium addicts, she could tell. She had seen many like them stumbling through the streets of the alienage pleading with smugglers, looking to shake merchants down for coin, and in the absence of success in either endeavor, ready to erupt violently.

 _It is because of me_ , she thought uneasily.

Templars were bloodhounds when it came to tracking mages. And all mages gave off a subtle scent of lyrium. She wasn't a mage, she knew, but apparently she, too, generated just enough lyrium to garner their attention.

Ushel gave them their goods and they left. She noticed their roving eyes, though, as they still sought what she had told them did not exist.

It made her restless.

That night she pleaded with Ushel to leave the farm. She had a sinking feeling, the memory of the dream vivid, the billowing puffs of lyrium swirling like a swarm of deadly insects.

He'd thought about it carefully; she knew he did.

"We cannot go," he decided. "We cannot abandon the farm. What if it is all gone when we return? Everything we worked so hard to build?… It will be fine, Maura," he insisted. "And I hear the Inquisition and its forces have seized the Crossroads from the apostates," he said calmly. "This, too, shall pass."

* * *

Maura found him in the field, doubled forward, clutching his stomach where the blade of a sword had run him through. She had seen the templars out of her window, fleeing light footed as only cowards are, disappearing into the forest. Ushel grabbed at her wrist as she tried to stem the bleeding with her bare hands, despair in her eyes.

"No, no," he protested weakly. "It's no use," he told her.

She tried to convince him of her hope rather than the inevitable while the blood eked, thick and red, into the earth.

"Why did they do this?" she raged, the tears burning her eyes.

"They thought…" he said with difficulty, "I was an apostate mage. They approached me…about lyrium…" his voice became faint. "One of them panicked. Thought the wooden handle of my shovel was a mage's staff?…I don't…" he swallowed with difficulty.

Maura had a moment of clarity, where she realized that if she continued to fret, she would deny him a safe passage. She sank to her knees, right there on the dirt, and gingerly cradled his head in her arms. She brushed the fine black hair peppered with grey back from his forehead and caressed his sun parched face very tenderly.

"Sssh—" she told him, summoning a calm and presence deep within her. "Rest." She held him as carefully as she had her newborn sons. He appeared to surrender to her touch, the tension slipping from his limbs. She could hear his shallow breathing, occasionally a cough caused bloody foam to bubble on his lips. At one point he opened his eyes and the look he gave her was one of great peace; she looked upon him with all the love and gratitude she felt.

"Maura," he rasped. "I knew. I knew from the moment I laid eyes upon you, from the moment you stood outside my door at the inn all those years ago—"

"What was that?" she asked, emotion surfacing in her voice.

"That you were my One," he smiled.

 _He would wait until the last possible moment to become romantic._ She smiled back at him warmly.

"They stole my ring," he coughed, suddenly agitated.

Her eyes sought out his hand and she felt a searing anger rise inside her.

"Don't you worry about that," she reassured him, settling him into a better position in her arms, "It'll be all right."

"Aaah…You were right," he said, mournfully.

"I usually am, you old goat," she said with affection between the tears.

He smiled, too.

"Ma sa'lath," he said in Elvish. "Take your time…Take your time…And when you cross through the Veil, on that distant day, I will be waiting for you."

"It won't be too long," she said. She shut her eyes against the tears. "I will miss you, every day, until then."

"I will miss you," he managed to echo, his eyes closing, his face as still as a resting child's.

* * *

One night and one morning.

She dug the grave by the tree he'd planted the first year after they were married. Dug until her hands cracked. Pain shot up her legs and back, but she did not stop. She would peer at where she had left him, covered in a thin shroud, half expecting to have to shoo away birds or other scavengers. But nothing touched him. It was as if the very ground they stood on were sacred. Not a leaf rustled. Not an insect buzzed. So she dug deeply, past the gnarled roots.

When she finally laid him to rest, she returned to the house, the door still open from when she'd rushed out the day before. She wanted nothing more than to collapse somewhere in peace, but remembered she had to at least feed the animals and milk the cow.

There was work to do and she was alone.

* * *

There was also that business of the ring.

Maura wanted it back.

She had tracked the templars down to their camp, wondering if she would be able to summon enough courage to sort through their packs for the stolen ring. From the bushes, at a safe distance, she could see that the encampment remained always guarded. It would be folly to barge in and demand the ring back. She hoped it hadn't been pawned off for a hit of lyrium. The remaining homesteaders demanded an explanation, but the templars had turned them out quickly, threateningly.

"We had to be safe," they lied. "The rebels are hidden everywhere. They attack us without warning."

One of the farmers had even inquired after her "confiscated" ring for her. At first they feigned ignorance. Finally, one of them made the final statement: It could be magic. It would not be returned.

 _The only magic he expects it to do is to disappear down some smuggler's pocket in exchange for some lyrium,_  she fumed.

On her way back to the farm one afternoon, she crossed the clearing and the old statue. She gazed upon it with weary, hardened eyes. She knew that back in Denerim people went to the Chantry to pray. From what she understood, praying was no different from prostrating one's self before a wealthy, powerful master and begging for favor. People usually asked for money. Or for the one they fancied to show them a sign of affection. For a cure to whatever disease was ravaging them or someone they loved.

It seemed like a foolish thing to her. She hated the thought that the Maker enjoyed such groveling. What kind of gods reveled in such a grim spectacle? Awarding some with favor and others with misery?

 _Perhaps_ , she thought angrily,  _if the old gods were so mercurial, they deserved to be betrayed._

She pat the side of the stone wolf with her rough hand.

_Betrayal…or justice?_

"Those templars deserve to die."

* * *

Three days later she watched a group of strangers reach the top of the path to the farmhouse and approach her.

"How are you faring out here?" a tall mage the others addressed as "Inquisitor" asked her, with concern.

She looked over each one of them with suspicion. The mage woman was accompanied by another woman, dressed in battle armor, wearing a tabard with an eye on it. She spoke with a heavy accent she did not recognize. Beside her was a ginger-haired dwarf. Curiously, the dwarf made her feel less tense. He had noticed that she, too, kept a crossbow close at hand.

"Nice," he winked, approvingly. "Bet no one comes to poach fruit from your orchard."

Among them was an elf. Another mage. This one lean and wiry, silent and watchful.

She had welcomed them properly and told them briefly what had happened to Ushel.

"'Ware the templars," she warned."They don't care who they kill anymore."

"You're saying the templars attacked your husband?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Aye," she said brusquely. "He was digging out a stump. The fools couldn't tell a shovel from a mage's staff." The scorn was evident in her tone. "Had to be safe, they said. Rebels everywhere attacking by surprise. Sick bastards."

She stared pointedly at the elf.

"They took the ring I gave him on our wedding day, in case it was magic."

The elf remained quiet, staring into his cup.

"They are nothing more than lyrium addicts," she continued bitterly. "They said they would keep the area free of apostates, but instead they are terrorizing the inhabitants of this region and murdering innocent people."

"Funny how that unoriginal, shitty story is the one that keeps getting told in some guise or another everywhere we go," the dwarf complained.

"If they are this desperate," the woman with the thick accent began, "these templars would be willing to make some very poor alliances…" she said to her group knowingly.

"Fresh recruits for the Red Team," the dwarf announced, shaking his head. "That would help explain some interesting encounters since we've arrived."

"We will keep a lookout for these templars," the Inquisitor said, "And when we find them, we will bring them to justice."

"Or Bianca," the dwarf pat his crossbow.

"Varric, I did not mean to imply—"

"Oh, come on. They're not going to surrender and come with us peacefully… and you know it," he said.

"Our camp is just down the hill on this side," the Inquisitor pointed out the door. "I will instruct our soldiers to include your farm in their patrol. I doubt you will be harassed any further by templars or mages," she said with concern. "Those who haven't turned themselves in are beating a hasty retreat."

Maura's eyes became as thin as slivers.

"Hahren," she addressed Solas.

He glanced up from his cup, his grey eyes clouded.

She didn't know why she was speaking to him thus, except that it felt like the right thing to do, even though she knew nothing of the man, even though he was younger than she and the title used only for revered elders. In her words, a plea, and all the weight of her years:

"Ma halani," she implored.

* * *

The makeshift camp consisted of nothing more than ragged bedrolls tossed around the remains of a campfire, an overturned cauldron tipped desolately farther away, a thin filament of liquid snaking its way past their feet.

"Four men, not counting the two we ran into at Dwarfson's Pass," Cassandra announced.

""They should have surrendered. Why toss away their lives for Samson, for Corypheus?" Evelyn lamented.

"They are deluded," Cassandra sighed.

"Any luck?" Varric called from another side of the camp. "I've found a few coins, plenty of pocket lint, and something brown, compact… and horrible." He paused. "I am going spend the next two days bathing. This is disgusting."

"Solas?" Evelyn called out.

Cassandra stretched her neck, trying to look over the stacked crates before them.

"Where did he go? I thought he was just here."

"Think he's in trouble? He was chasing one of the templars down that way," Varric stated, resting Bianca over his shoulder.

"Let's go," Evelyn said worriedly. It was unusual for the elf to break away from them.

Just as they were about to set off on a search, they noticed movement farther below. It was hard to see in the dusk, but the silhouette was unmistakably Solas'. He walked swiftly, his staff bobbing beside him. His clothes were streaked with a spray of blood.

"It's about time! Where did you wander off to? Did you go pick flowers?" Varric teased.

Solas said nothing. Instead, he raised his hand. Between his thumb and index finger glimmered a golden ring.

"Well done, Solas!" Cassandra cheered. "We've practically turned the camp upside down looking for it."

"I thought it was long gone by now," Evelyn said with relief.

"It's a damned miracle it wasn't," Varric stated. "Where did you find it, anyway?"

"Down that way," he pointed, indicating a general direction down the hill.

They were all exhausted and darkness would soon settle over them.

"Let's go back to the camp," Cassandra motioned towards the rocky path. "We can stop in on the widow before we leave in the morning.

"I'll go tonight," Solas offered. "The farm is just a quick walk up the hill from the camp. I think having this will bring her much needed comfort."

"Who finds running into Chuckles here in the dark comforting, raise their hands!" Varric joked.

He grabbed Cassandra's arm and hoisted it up, waving, over his head. She twisted her arm loose from his grasp and shooed him away with a little growl as if he were a pesky gnat.

They marched up the path trudging back to the camp. It was good they were distracted thus, Solas thought with relief, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. He hadn't wanted to explain how he had ambushed the lyrium smuggler who'd been in possession of the ring several miles away from there. He'd have trouble explaining the distance, of course, but even more so the expression of twisted terror frozen on the dead man's face.

* * *

Maura saw the elf from her window. He approached the house respectfully, knocking on the door even though he'd seen she'd been watching him. She welcomed him, greeting him in Elvish, almost shyly.

"Forgive me for coming by so late. I wanted to return this to you as soon as possible," he told her, retrieving the ring from a pouch around his belt. Her eyes widened in disbelief and awe. At first her face remained still, her mouth slightly agape. Then she collapsed in a chair and wept. Solas pat her back.

"Ir abelas," he murmured again and again.

By the time the mage elf left, it was late. He had stayed with her, sharing several cups of drink, and talking. She thought that they had conversed, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized she'd done the talking and he'd only listened, asking questions here and there when warranted.

They'd gazed at the gold rings, side by side on the table.

"Lath Enansal…Love's Gift. These are very old," he said, admiringly. "I haven't seen the likes of these in…a very long time," he smiled kindly.

"And now they are together again—as they should be." Her tone was wistful.

"It's a tradition no one really remembers anymore. Lath Enansal are never given when two elves are newly wed," he explained.

"No?" she said curiously. "Ushel and I exchanged rings the day we were married."

"Is that so?" he raised his eyebrows at her. "That is rare. Elven wedding rings bind the wearers together for life…and beyond life, for once we were immortal… They are never offered lightly, for they can only be offered once. It is why a couple might wait a few years into their marriage to see if they truly wish to be bound to each other."

"Ah…" she said, dazed.

 _I meant to exchange these with you…later on. But today is as good a time as later_ , he'd said that day, in the cart. Ahead, the road led to their whole lives.

They had been so impossibly young.

Her eyes welled up again.

 _I knew,_ he'd said. _My One._

She wiped her eyes bashfully. She hadn't meant to make her visitor uncomfortable.

"He was my One, too," she grinned, between the persistent tears. "On that, at least, we agreed." She remembered with a rush of warmth. She fingered the rings pensively, feeling the wide bands over her fingertips. "I will pass these on to my older son. He is moving here from Denerim with his family after winter.

She sipped from her cup.

"These meant so much to Ushel. I wished to honor that…honor him."

"But…you don't believe in the promise of the rings? That you will remain together even beyond the Veil?"

She chuckled.

"I believe in what the rings represent," she told him. "I believe in the love, in the friendship, in the life we built. I think these," she said, slipping both rings on her fingers, "Are a beautiful symbol—a reminder of our traditions, of our past…of our hopes…" she looked at the elf. "I believe we will remain together…at least in the memory of our sons, of our grandchildren…Yes. That'll be our immortality. But I have some difficulty believing in all that…otherworldly talk. The Chantry tells us to believe in one thing, the Dalish believe in another, there are all these cults and sects. They yell over each other, and I am not convinced the gods ever existed as they say they did. I know magic exists, but to me that is similar to the forces that govern the seasons…the tides. Gods are something different, separate," she explained. "Perhaps people thought of them as gods because they wielded much power once…but the idea of supreme beings ruling our fates, eavesdropping on us on a whim…I do not know if there is more. Perhaps it is just as well if this is all there is: Ushel and I were happy. And for that I am grateful. To hope for more would be greedy," she shook her head, uncertainty manifested on her face.

The elf had stayed until late, listening to her stories, to her memories, indulging her reminiscing until their eyes grew heavy.

"Farewell," he'd said, turning to her for the last time on the path back to the camp. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

In the dream he sat on a stone dais in the middle of a clearing, much as he had during all the time she'd known him, except he was made flesh and his pelt glistened silver in the the starry night, ruffled by the breeze.

 _You know me_ , he said without speaking.

 _I do_ , she agreed, for in the wolf's dark eyes she had recognized the black of night, the constellations of an ancient sky, the inky shadows of those primordial trees, shooting vertiginously up into the firmament, the canopy overhead the color of twilight. The moon sat to his left, the sun hovered to his right, shimmering circles of light.

 _Is this your true form?_  she asked.

 _Sometimes_.

She smiled, for this she knew of Fen'Harel: he was wily and elusive; he would not be tamed. He slipped past the words and and titles they wished to affix to him.

 _He's majestically wild,_  she thought. Just as she'd imagined him, even when he was cast in stone.

The air crackled and swirled about him, as if his movements stirred the earth itself into motion. He said one more thing to her—it was in Elvish, but she understood, for in dreams in the Fade she lacked for nothing.

He spoke to her and her heart listened, full.

 _Glandival_ , the Dreadwolf said.

 _Believe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter, but I very intentionally wanted the 21st story to be about the Dreadwolf, for 21 is a number ruled by Tricksters (Black Jack, anyone?), and to me that is what Solas is. I hope that Bioware doesn't mess up Solas' character in the future. I hope he doesn't become a full fledged hero or villain. I like him as he is: mysterious, ambiguous, beyond our reach of full comprehension…
> 
> Maura is the widow from the "Agrarian Apostate" quest, which consists of recovering her husband's stolen wedding ring. Some of the dialogue with the Inquisitor is straight from the game.


	22. The Gift (Part I)

The Gift

 

"My dear boy, the people who only love once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect—simply a confession of failures."

~ Oscar Wilde

* * *

She had always had an eye for beautiful things and a genius for making everything more fetching. Her robes were the same issue as everyone else's at the Circle, but she wore hers with flair: it was in the way she fastened them with a belt, the fabric draping over her figure alluringly. Her walk was elegant, and her posture was statuesque. She trained, painstakingly, to speak without a rough accent, and worked diligently to excel.

In everything.

Nothing went unobserved to the young mage. She noticed everything: from the baubles ladies wore to the coat of arms on their coaches. Beautiful things, in her eyes, expanded beyond the realm of tangible items. Titles, power…those, too, were beautiful things.

Vivienne knew that if she demonstrated her superiority in her studies, in her work, she would be granted greater freedom. A privilege. She endeared herself to all the Chantry mothers and sisters she could, and obeyed the templars unquestioningly. When she found herself at Montsimmard, she couldn't have been more delighted.

Orlais was where she belonged, she knew, as she admired the colorful fashions, the lively streets, the odor of baked goods wafting in the air, and the lull of a ballad echoing to her ears. Orlais was alive.

 _It's a long way to come for the daughter of simple merchants from Dairsmund,_ she'd congratulate herself proudly.

But even then, she couldn't quite hide the strange feeling that tugged at her when she thought of the empty words: Mother. Father. They were just shadows, even in memory. She'd long stopped wondering what life would have been like, growing up with them— an ordinary childhood. Perhaps, even a happy one. It was pointless, though. It did her no good to indulge such sentimentality. She was a mage, they had done the right thing. Magic had determined the course of her life; she meant to steer that course always forward. Steadily.

She was still a young woman when she set foot in her first ballroom. She was aware of the indirect glances directed her way as she accompanied the Chantry representatives. She was their most competent, beloved pupil.

_A credit to her kind._

All her discipline served her well during her debut. She'd concealed how nervous she'd been, how the possibility of a misstep made her so anxious she had to make herself stop trembling, how aware she was of eyes upon her, of the commentary her ears had picked up as she wandered about the room.

_Exotic._

Young men bored her. Sure, they were charming, she wasn't blind or immune to them. But their inexperience chafed. They grasped for what they wanted too clumsily— whether it was an opportunity, a bid for power, recognition… or her. Game players though they would someday become, they were still new to it all, still familiarizing themselves with the board…and she was not willing to be some sacrificial pawn. She was pleasant and even flirtatious, but Vivienne was not known to bestow her favors upon anyone. She remained intangible, a fantasy, and she wondered if the impasse would last.

Until he came into her life.

He was older—just how much older, she would learn only later. At the time he was an aristocratic, enticing man. The first thing she noticed about him were his shoes. She admired the fine make and quality. Then, how impeccably dressed he was.

 _What a sense of presence_ , she thought, approvingly.

He was not a tall man—he was of average height—but he carried himself with a sense of importance. When he entered a room, she saw people took notice. And when he spoke, he had a low, but strong voice that resonated long after he'd fallen silent.

 _How rare such a noble in the Orlesian court_ , she marveled, her fan the perfect accomplice for the furtive glances she cast over him.

A few questions placed in a honeyed tongue to the right ears told her much about the distinct gentleman.

Duke Bastien de Ghislain was head of the Council of Heralds, she was told.

He was accomplished, wealthy, and powerful.

He was also married, although his Duchess was nowhere in sight.

 _Of course he is_ , she smiled, her eyes lingering over the expertly tailored formal coat.

It had taken most of the evening for him to notice her, so engrossed was he in the machinations of the Game, even among congenial company. He was across the ballroom when she stepped off the dance floor, all smiles and graceful regrets. As she turned her head and faced him brazenly yet serenely, he would tell her many times over the years, there had been only she in his eyes.

"C'était le coup de foudre," he'd tell her. Like a bolt of lightning: he'd been struck on the spot.

"Of course it was, darling," she would laugh. "When I aim I never miss…"

His eyes followed her covetously throughout the room, even as she wove coquettishly through the other guests, aware she was being stalked by a most interesting pair of blue eyes. She was being admired, but he was the one subjected to the greater scrutiny. It remained to be seen how he would approach her. Age was no guarantee of a certain savoir faire in such matters…

He'd kept her waiting, something that caused her to grow impatient only because she savored it. She may have cast her net, but he had no intention of being pulled in to be scrutinized, perhaps even tossed back if found unappetizing. This was his sea, he reminded her. She saw his attention flicker like a sputtering candle, and then, he was otherwise entertained, a cordial in his hand, the conversation among his peers animated. She'd would have been very cross to admit it, but her heart sank a bit.

_How interesting._

She was accosted later on by the Chantry's representative to the Council of Heralds. She hadn't expected it, and cursed herself later for the look of bewilderment in her face when the representative had casually summoned Bastien to join them, eagerness to accrue favor from him evident in the representative's face.

"Your Grace," she curtseyed politely.

He was difficult to read, she realized. Thankfully so, or she would have found him very dreary, indeed. He carried himself with decorum, asking her polite questions and expressing a studied aloofness when she replied.

 _This is a true player of The Game_ , she realized reverently.  _He takes his time, familiarizes himself with the terrain, acknowledges his opponent…and waits._

Just as abruptly as they had met, he excused himself, but not without letting her know what an exquisite pleasure it had been to meet her. Without a further word, or even a parting look, he turned on his heels and was gone again. She might as well have been buffeted by a whirlwind, she thought, straining to regain her composure. Yes, he was handsome, but she knew better than to bet on looks alone. Looks faded. Looks became tiresome, as did any view. Better they have something behind them: a spark, intelligence…verve. And the Duke had plenty and more. And he was shrewd, she remarked, returning to her companions, disguising her grin of approval.

* * *

 

Everyone was surprised when the invitation arrived. Their small party had been invited, once more, to another event. Not a Chantry one, this time, making the invitation all the more curious.

"Under whose patronage?"someone had asked.

"The Duke de Ghislain," came the reply.

Vivienne's face remained gracefully impassive even as her heart beat stronger.

* * *

 

He did this to her several times. And all he would do was chat with her in a cordial manner, no more longer than he did other casual acquaintances. But his eyes! Maker, his eyes…His mouth said one thing and his eyes suggested another. She was younger, and definitely holding her own, but it was tantalizing to the point of distraction. Younger men often attempted to tempt her favor, but she was too intrigued by that stage to withdraw her gaze from the clever Duke. It was a very amusing, dangerous game they played, and each time he lured her further, tossing her the smallest hints of how there was more beneath his cool surface: an arm politely offered to escort her across the grounds was often followed by a hand that rested over hers, caressing it very slowly, tellingly, only to fly away indifferently once their destination had been reached.

There had been the time she'd thought he'd ask her to dance.

"Do they teach you how to dance at the Circle?" he'd asked.

"No," she'd replied, her bare shoulders catching the gleam of the candlelight under his admiring gaze. "Alas, it is not a sanctioned field of study for mages," she'd lamented coyly.

"You should learn. It is a most entertaining pastime," he'd declared.

At that she'd despaired.

"I never said I didn't know how to dance," she interjected, flummoxed.

And he'd had the gall to smile! It was a triumphant smile, the grin of the sly cat cornering his prey.

Her faux-pas, she realized, devastated. She'd been too hopeful, too eager.

"How do they say "sorcière" in your language again? I forget…" he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"We say 'witch'…or 'sorceress,' but the Chantry prefers we use the term 'mage.'"

He'd leaned in very slightly, just close enough to her ear, but enough she could feel his warm breath against her neck. She peered at him sideways, intrigued by the sudden shift in their conversation. With his back turned to the grand salon, he revealed only to her the expression of heady desire on his face.

"Of course they do…They don't want you bewitching or ensorcelling anyone," he murmured, a faint rasp to his voice. He then nodded before leaving her standing there and seeking out the Dowager for a dance.

The level at which he was playing her was unprecedented. She would have been able to marvel at it much more if she hadn't been made to feel so weak in the knees.

Sometimes he did not even attend the events they'd been invited to.

 _Shrewd_ , she repeated to herself. That way, he was always on her mind. He left her wondering, guessing, hypothesizing, deliberating…and hoping.

But one event had changed everything.

It had almost brought their dalliance to a thunderous end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne's meeting Bastien across a ballroom was gleaned from an in-game conversation as is the bit on her parents and original place of birth. Her insecurities earlier on in her life and some catty comments about the color of her skin are also from the game: Cole reveals them. You can all imagine how delighted she is when he does...


	23. The Gift (Part II)

"She walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
And all that's best of dark and bright  
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..."  
~ Lord Byron

* * *

Vivienne's small party had arrived late, no thanks to the Chantry's antiquated carriage, and missed all the introductions. As they slipped into the room, where the festivities were unfolding, she spotted him, dapperly dressed as always. He appeared to be in a jovial mood until he spied her descending the staircase. His eyes lit up for a second and then dulled; he somberly directed his attention back to his group and did not seek her out.

It was a breach in their ritual, in their dance, and she felt at a loss.

Perhaps he had grown bored?

It did not make any sense, though, and she wracked her brain to identify a moment, an exchange that would have given her a clue, an indication, of that most unexpected behavior.

And she realized she was a sore loser when it came to the Game.

No longer able to sustain an impassive face as he ignored her so blatantly, she discreetly removed herself onto a large terrace down a quiet hallway overlooking the sculpted gardens below. The stars shimmered indifferently above, an echo of the night unfurling with no promise.

Vivienne startled when she sensed movement behind her and turned eagerly, half expecting, half hoping the Duke to have followed her. Instead, she found a woman reclining on one of the terrace's settees.

Vivienne had seen and met many influential women in the Chantry, the Circle, and the Orlesian Court. She had admired some, perhaps envied a few, but ultimately did not think they had much more on her.

The woman she saw, sprawling languidly as she admired the mild evening, slowly fanning herself, was perhaps the most intriguing woman she had ever seen. She evinced an effortless, regal air. Upon closer examination, Vivienne was able to tell she was a mature woman, slender and beautifully dressed. The eyes peering back at her in the half lights of the torches were large and dark, long lashed and piercing.

"Seeking shelter from the heat?" she asked in a friendly manner.

Vivienne knew better; everything uttered could be interpreted as double speak.

"Indeed. It was getting quite…stuffy…in there," she said, peeved.

The woman laughed brightly and bid her to sit with her.

"What is your name, darling?" the woman asked.

Vivienne's eyes noticed her delicate, manicured hands, a pearl bracelet with rubies adorning her pale wrist. An impressively large ruby ring encrusted with glimmering diamonds rested on the indicator of one hand and a golden wedding band circled the ring finger of the other.

"Vivienne," she stated, elusively. "And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Isadora," the woman smiled enigmatically. "I have heard much about you," she continued, and Vivienne had the impression she was undergoing a great inspection at that moment. "You are the mage the Chantry likes to parade about, are you not?"

"I see my reputation precedes me," she said, concealing her alarm.

"As reputations should. No one likes unannounced visitors. I have been told you are quite gifted…" Isadora continued, encouragingly. "That someday, perhaps, you may be a force to be reckoned with."

"A force to be reckoned with is very much something a mage strives to avoid," Vivienne stated cautiously.

The woman grinned.

"I meant no harm, darling," she said with disarming congeniality. "But a mage is just a facet of who you are, isn't it?" Her voice was smooth, velvety.

Vivienne remained on her guard. The woman's eyes swept over her attire.

"I like how you dress. You most definitely aren't frumpy and dowdy like the other mages allowed to step out of the Circle, thank goodness!" She raised a goblet to her painted red lips. "Tell me…How else are you different from other mages?"

They began a tentative conversation, during which Vivienne examined the woman carefully as well. It wasn't just the luxurious finery the woman was bedecked in—it was her poise, her natural charm, making every gesture so beguiling and natural. They soon engaged in a lively conversation for most of the evening, engrossed in each other, laughing, topping each other's goblets of wine, exchanging observations and impressions, discovering mutual interests, and a shared sensibility. She had gleaned that the woman was well-born, of an old, established Orlesian noble family, from the way she carried herself and spoke. Despite her pampered ways, she had a keen mind, interesting opinions, and a cutting wit. For once Vivienne realized she was truly entertained, listening rather than just nodding politely and calculating every gesture, bidding her time to escape. It was an unexpected solace she had not even realized she would like to indulge. She found herself doing something terribly forbidden, extremely damning to any aspiring player of the Game:

She found herself being sincere.

Their delightful tête-à-tête was interrupted by none other than the Duke himself. He had been searching for her and when he burst onto the balcony, he had spotted her before noticing her lovely companion.

"Vivienne, you all but disappeared," he said with reserved aplomb. "I was wondering—"

And then he halted, as if struck, his face stilling in an inscrutable expression.

"Isadora," he acknowledged respectfully.

"Bastien," she returned the formal greeting.

"I shall leave you to your conversation. Forgive me," he said hurriedly, backing out of the terrace.

 _How interesting,_  Vivienne observed, narrowing her eyes. He'd become completely discomfited. Isadora watched her, undisguised amusement in her expression.

"It appears the Duke has taken a keen interest in you," she said.

"The entire court seems to find me interesting, it appears. From the color of my skin to the—"

"Nonsense," Isadora interrupted, sitting up at last, her up do delicately pinpointed with tiny crystals catching the light as if they were diminutive stars in her lustrous black hair. "After all, beauty is skin deep…"

"So is guile," Vivienne stated shrewdly.

The woman balked for a moment, and Vivienne steeled herself for the unavoidable confrontation. Such verbal sparring was more familiar and comfortable to her.

"I know him quite well," Isadora said softly, her eyes at the doorway, distant. "And I can see he is quite taken with you, darling." Her voice was down almost to a whisper. "Tell me: is it mutual?"

Vivienne scoffed inwardly. As much as she had enjoyed her conversation with the woman, she was coming back to her senses. This was Orlais! And as much as she knew how the woman felt about music, art, the latest books and some less important personages of the court, she was not going to open her heart to a stranger. Before she could give the woman a reply, she had leaned forward, her face suddenly filled with urgency.

"Be on your guard, my dear. Tread carefully… Bastien is a willful man. If you allow him to, he will dominate your life, loom too large in your horizon."

Vivienne fell silent.

"Do you think you have what it takes to stand beside such a man without losing yourself in his shadow?" she asked. Her manner of asking was not confrontational, nor was it filled with the patronizing quality of a rhetorical question. It was an honest inquiry.

"Yes," Vivienne replied with assuredness.

Isadora eyes sparkled in the dark.

"Think carefully about what you wish for. And remember who you are, where you want to go. Tonight I had the utmost pleasure of becoming acquainted with a formidable woman. I would hope to continue to know her as such," she cautioned, sympathetically.

At this, Vivienne had to smile. The woman had spoken so fervently. The admiration was mutual.

"Since I have confided in you, will you indulge me?" Vivienne asked quietly. Inside the manor, laughter and cheers erupted at some undoubtedly vacuous entertainment. "How do you know the Duke so well?" She steeled herself to ask the question that had been nagging at her, the one she had begun to piece together after she had seen how clouded Bastien's expression had become at the sight of Isadora sitting there. "Were you one of his lovers?" she asked.

At this the woman contemplated her with delight.

"No…No…" she managed to say as her lips parted in a wide grin. "My, you really are innocent, aren't you? It is a good thing we met before the wolves got to you…Although I am sure you would give them quite the chase," she said mirthfully. "I am the Duchess de Ghislain…Bastien's wife."

Vivienne felt the blood drain from her face. She knew Bastien was a married man. A man of his station always was married. But such marriages were arranged, solely of convenience. Mistresses were an accepted arrangement, even consolation for such contracts. Until that moment, she had only considered Bastien's wife as an abstraction—as someone indifferent in the distant background. But that woman? That woman was the very essence of all she found beguiling and alluring. She was, she admitted, all she strove to emulate.

"Why are you offering me advice?" Vivienne confronted her, suddenly defensive.

"Bastien is very dear to me. He is an extraordinary man. I would not see his affections abused by an arriviste," she responded with a pensive air.

Long, tapered fingers reached for her own hand, taking it with affection.

"But if it's with you, ma belle…You, I like," was the simple, devastating reply. "You, I think I can be friends with."

* * *

"I normally never attend these affairs. I loathe playing the Game…and it's precisely why I excel at it. It will be the ruin of us all, you know," she explained as they wandered back to the ballroom together later on, arm in arm. "But I so wanted to meet you, darling," she confided.

"And how did you know I would find you?"

"I didn't!" she said. "It was too stifling in there, dear. In so many ways…So, it is a fortuitous coincidence that the Maker's stars led you to me."

When they crossed the threshold into the ballroom, other guests immediately began to vie for Isadora's attention. Vivienne saw, not without a modicum of envious admiration, that she brushed them away so deftly they were left grinning dazedly in her wake. She and Isadora stood directly before the dance floor as couples swirled before them. Across the way Bastien emerged from the conversing crowd, distancing himself from his entourage. The two women fell into an expectant silence as he approached them.

He bowed and quietly extended his hand to his Duchess.

"Will you do me the honor?" he invited her with great reverence.

Vivienne would not have expected him to do otherwise. Not before the entire court. If he had asked her instead, it would have been a futile, ill-advised manifestation of affection. She wouldn't have forgiven him for such an egregious indiscretion.

"Alas, mon cher," she said loudly enough so that she could be easily overheard by the nosy observers. "I find myself somewhat indisposed. But won't you extend your gracious invitation to dear Vivienne?," she offered. "I hope she will take my place most obligingly," she grinned, undoubtedly pleased with her own double speak.

He held still for a very brief moment before gallantly bowing to her and offering his extended hand to Vivienne.

"Will you honor me…with this dance?"

Vivienne seized the hand, clasping it tightly.

After that evening there had been few impediments when it came to them. Soon after, he secured her a prestigious apprenticeship with the Imperial Court's Enchantress, ensuring her greater freedom from the Circle. It was as if the slow pace that defined their interactions from the beginning had been lifted once he'd received Isadora's blessing.

She did not run into the Duchess again at any social events afterwards, which she was secretly relieved for. She had been so shaken by their meeting that she had considered dropping the whole matter, giving up on the prospect of becoming Bastien's lover.

She didn't though; she just couldn't, for despite all her meticulous plans she hadn't counted on one unexpected detail: she had already fallen in love.


	24. The Gift (Part III)

**24: The Gift (Part III)**

"I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes"  
― Vladimir Nabokov

 

Bastien gradually became bolder, remaining by her side longer in public, cutting in protectively if another suitor insinuated himself. He escorted her through gardens, strolling leisurely with her under the pretense of showing her the grounds. It was during those times that they would dally, convey their thoughts and feelings, whether spoken or unspoken, and she would allow him to steer her off into a quiet, secluded nook, away from prying eyes. It was in those furtive moments, when unable to sustain studied pretenses, that he would plead with her, their breaths ragged as they broke away from each other's lips and tantalizing caresses.

"Be mine," he'd say to her longingly, his arms embracing her firmly against him.

* * *

To perform her duties as apprentice, Vivienne had to remain close to the court, ready to answer any summons. It was the Duchess de Ghislain who insisted that the young apprentice be housed at their estate. The Duke himself escorted her from Montsimmard. He'd arrived a day earlier than expected, in full uniform, his medals glinting in the sunlight. He cut such a distinguished figure, every single window in the tower was congested with the curious faces of onlookers vying for a glimpse of the handsome Duke. On the way to Val Royeaux, he surprised her by taking a detour: an overnight at a villa in Val Firmin, at the shores of Lake Celestine. He revealed to her that the majestic villa was theirs for the night, and she marveled at the breathtaking view of the gardens in bloom and the tame waves on the lake's surface.

"Is it all to your taste, my heart?" he asked, seductively bringing her hand to his lips as they supped in the sumptuous dining room.

It was, she admitted. All of it.

On that night, she finally became his.

* * *

She loved him dearly.

He remained in her thoughts long after he'd left her side. It was inebriating: she, still a young woman, was the declared mistress of Duke Bastien de Ghislain and she reveled in how gingerly the court treated her, seeking to curry her favor, eager to please her, in hopes that she would put in a good word for them with the Head of the Council of Heralds.

Her life began to circle around his—she lived by his calendar. She waited for him. She anticipated his needs. She was devoted and thoughtful. She prepared herself to attend the various functions so he would not find himself alone… And she accompanied him jealously, so she could make sure his eye did not wander. There were others, she knew, who strove to aim as high and did not see her as an impediment…only a nuisance.

Anytime he was late, she grew suspicious. If he changed his plans, it unnerved her. She questioned him, casually, of course, hinging on his every word.

She dined with the Duke and Duchess often and on one particular evening, things had become strained between herself and the Duke.

"I should like it very much if you accompanied me to the Order's dinner," he had expressed, referring to yet another commitment. "See Montmorency in town for any finery you may require," he stated.

"Thank you!" she said, eager to demonstrate her appreciation of his favor. "You really shouldn't!" she protested.

The Duke had frowned and excused himself. She yearned to ask where he was going, but tactfully refrained from any passionate displays. He left, somewhat downhearted, leaving them in a heavy silence. Such spectacles had become more and more frequent.

She finished her meal, aware of the stare the Duchess afforded her.

"Vivienne," she said gently, setting down a crystal goblet on the table. "I do not mean to alarm you, darling… but you are losing him."

Vivienne stiffened.

"What happened?" Isadora whispered. "I feel I don't recognize the woman sitting before me," she continued. "I had such high hopes for you…"

"What do you mean? I have been nothing but loving and devoted." She continued, with a defiant spark in her eye, "And I am well aware of who my rivals are..."

Isadora scoffed, and this time she did not disguise her bitterness.

"I warned you, didn't I? I told you this day could come."

Vivienne said nothing. It was a humiliation the likes of which she had never experienced before: she found herself being scolded by her absent lover's wife on her shortcomings as a mistress. She smarted at the possibility of losing all the prestige she had amassed. It distracted her from the other imminent loss— of her love.

"Bastien is not a frivolous man. He does not bestow his favor or affections lightly. He is sincere… but he cannot sustain an illusion," she reprimanded her.

It was the first time in her life that Vivienne allowed herself to shed tears before another person.

"What did I do wrong?" she asked, genuinely puzzled, her voice steady, even as the tears tumbled down her cheek.

Isadora leaned back into her chair, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck in deep thought.

"Your constant gratitude...It is grating," she concluded astutely.

Vivienne's head shot up and she quickly composed herself.

"What do you mean?"

"Such gratitude would be better suited if your lover were a humble man, a modest man who had plundered his coffers to please you."

She did not understand.

"I was merely showing him I wasn't taking him for granted—"

Isadora did not mince her words.

"When will you understand, ma petite? Bastien doesn't do all this solely for your sake. He does it because he  _can_ , without a greater thought to the cost. He is rich! He does it because it gives  _him_  pleasure to have  _you_  looking stunning on his arm. He does it for him, not for you, dearest. So stop your pointless thankfulness. It sounds like an apology," she scolded her. "It makes you sound unworthy…and it irks him…It leads him to question his choice."

Vivienne's eyes widened.

_Yes. I needed this._

"Do you sell yourself for so little?" Isadora asked provocatively. "Does any little dangling jewel warrant what you have done to yourself?"

She stared at Isadora's indignant countenance.

"He looms too large now. You are reinventing yourself because of him. You are lost in his shadow."

"How do I undo this?" she asked.

"The only way to step out of someone's shadow is to stand taller—reach for the sun, darling."

* * *

Isadora was right, of course. She always was.

"If you want him back, you need to be yourself again—an even better version of yourself."

It was then that Orlais truly opened up, revealing its secrets with Isadora guiding her, cutting through prejudices thanks to her masterful wielding of rank, steering her towards the best seamstresses, the most discerning jewelers, the most fashionable milliners and cobblers. Together, they threw the best soirees and cultural salons that became the talk of Val Royeaux. And Vivienne saw: she learned how to carry herself and how to maneuver, all under the instruction of the Duchess.

"Stop fretting, darling," she warned her anytime she balked at the expenses. "Beautiful things are not created effortlessly and the price they command is fair in that it must support those who dedicate their lives to creating it for us!"

Isadora would also remind her:

"It is the least you deserve. They say one meant for greatness must be properly attired for when the right moment arrives…But I say the  _truly_  great make every moment the right one."

Vivienne slowly resumed her lapsed apprenticeship with the Court Enchantress, seeking to build up her credibility and reliability in light of all the flimsy excuses she had conjured to always be at Bastien's side. She worked extremely hard, like in the days back at Ostwick, rediscovering the passions residing within scrolls and books. She often missed their dinners, was unable to attend many events, and was often sending her regrets to the Duke and Duchess. She became involved in greater depth with the Circle at Montsimmard, occasionally overnighting there to share her expertise or offer guidance.

Bastien watched her in wonder as she rose through Orlesian society, claiming or creating her place, jockeying for more advantageous positions with a tenacity and charm that excited him. Anytime he could, he eased her way, whether it through the Council's aid, putting in a good word with the right person, or occasionally calling in favors. He relished observing her in all her boldness, her fearlessness.

He was enchanted by his enchantress.

One evening they ran into each other at another event. They had not known they would both be attending, not having been able to communicate their plans in advance: he'd been returning from a diplomatic trip to the Marches, and she from a longer stay at Montsimmard. Dressed in white silk, in an exquisite hat with pointed horns and fine heeled satin slippers, donning a silver mask with moonstones and dazzling diamond dust, she turned all heads as she glided through the room. She was mesmerizing in her confidence and in her beauty.

And Bastien loved beauty, especially in the unabashedly alluring form of his mistress. It had taken every ounce of gentlemanly self restraint on his part not to take her right there in the carriage, on their ride home together. He had never desired her so ardently—it thrilled her and took her breath away.

Vivienne was triumphant.

* * *

A few years later, when Lady Calienne de Chalon's death was announced, Vivienne was overseeing some of the Circle's matters in Val Firmin. She left immediately for Val Royeaux, her heart heavy, fearing the worst.

When she arrived at the gates of the de Ghislain estate, her suspicions were proven correct. Isadora had collapsed, her heart failing her upon hearing the news of the death of her beloved daughter.

She remembered Isadora's prophetic words with a pang: "I loathe playing the Game…It will be the ruin of us all…"

Isadora managed to survive, but barely; she ailed and declined for years until she finally drew her last breath. Even in illness, though, Isadora had clung to her aristocratic ways. She insisted on being properly dressed, her feet shod in gorgeous slippers, even though she was incapable of going anywhere anymore. And it was Vivienne who dutifully applied the rouge and lip stain to her face, who devotedly brushed out her hair. It was Vivienne who saw to all the minutiae of the service at the cathedral after Isadora died, entrusted with details regarding the floral arrangements, the music, even the menu of the repast to be served afterwards. It was all very tasteful and dignified, as demanded by the occasion and their rank. So many details, so much to attend to. And she was grateful for it. It kept her strong. It kept her busy.

Months later, Bastien approached her, his hair a silvery hue, more fragile than she'd ever seen him. He had grown older over the years, of course, but much older over the past months, since Isadora's passing.

"Do you wish to be married?" he'd asked her.

She thought for a bit. A mage marrying a Duke would undoubtedly raise a few hackles, but it wouldn't be the first time she had bucked convention in Orlais. She rather enjoyed the challenge and prestige of being first at anything.

"No, darling," she decided at last. "There is no need for it—it would change nothing between us," she said, lovingly taking his hands in hers. "Besides, I couldn't: to me there will only ever be one Duchess," she revealed.

He didn't press her further; he understood.

* * *

The afternoon Bastien died was the second time she ever allowed herself to shed tears before another person. Evelyn had sat respectfully in the room as Vivienne tended to him at his deathbed.

"Thank you, my love," she had whispered into his ear. "For all of it."

She uttered it with gratitude, knowing she would be forgiven for it that once.

"Vivienne, take as much time as you need to take care of things here," Evelyn reassured her later.

"Thank you, darling, but I assure you I won't need long."

"I will stay for the services," Evelyn continued. "And Josephine will come, also."

"That'll be good— the Inquisition's presence will be much appreciated after all that's transpired here."

"Can I help with anything?" Evelyn offered gently.

"You have gone above and beyond. You have shown yourself a true friend, Evelyn," Vivienne said approvingly.

"Let me know if there is anything you need," she insisted.

"It's quite all right. There are only the service arrangements to make…a few matters to resolve…Although I really should contact our solicitors so I can decide what to do with the estate. It shouldn't sit vacant—"

"Are there any children?…"

Vivienne peered up from her desk somewhat bewildered.

"Hmm? No, darling. Bastien's only daughter died years ago in that sordid conspiracy involving the Valmonts…And I…I never had any children of my own."

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to pry," Evelyn quickly amended.

She grinned mildly. She liked the Inquisitor. She had excellent manners. She'd been raised a noble after all— and studied at Ostwick, too, a most civilized Circle, she remembered.

"I know you didn't, so don't feel foolish; I never wanted any children. There was always so much to attend to, I couldn't afford to have a child. It was for the best; I'd never be a proper mother. I don't think I could dedicate myself to anyone so completely without losing myself, you see," she said candidly.

Evelyn nodded, surprised at the formidable woman's lowered guard.

"But sometimes I think that if I'd had a child, I would have wanted a girl," she mused, smiling conspiratorially at Evelyn. "And I would have named her after my most beloved friend…Isadora."

"That's a beautiful name," she concurred.

"It is, isn't it?" she replied, pleased. "Do you know what it means?"

Evelyn shook her head.

"It means 'gift,'" Vivienne stated quietly, staring out into the expansive parlor beyond the doorway, the chandeliers glistening in the fading afternoon sun.


	25. Heroes

**25: Heroes (Part I)**

"In a way fighting was just like using magic. You said the words, and they altered the universe. By merely speaking you could create damage and pain, cause tears to fall, drive people away, make yourself feel better, make your life worse.

― Lev Grossman

* * *

Cullen regretted his words the moment they escaped his lips and he noticed the expression on Evelyn's face.

"Oh?… Really?" she said, with ill-concealed aggravation.

She pulled away from the board game they'd been playing in the courtyard.

"I should be getting back to my duties. Apparently, I have some big shoes to fill…" she had said with poisonous sweetness.

"You aren't really cross, are you?" he asked, trying to grasp her wrist as she rose. He was still trying to save face at that stage and had asked in a surprised, almost reproachful tone.

Varric and Dorian agreed later, at the Herald's Rest, as they listened to Cullen narrate the events, that it had been very ill-advised to do so in face of the sleight he had perpetrated.

"When it comes to your romantic past, Curly, you need to have selective amnesia," Varric explained. "You don't need to deny it, but be ready to say that none of it meant anything and that life only began once she came into the picture."

"But I thought she'd be impressed!" Cullen said with exasperation.

Varric, Dorian, and Blackwall all cackled at his naive outburst.

"I don't get it either," Bull shrugged. "Jealousy isn't something that really exists among the Qunari. You just know that whomever you are with was with a whole bunch of others before you…In fact, you hope they know what the heck they're doing so you can get to business faster."

Dorian turned to him, annoyed.

"Yes, well, if I were to have a jealousy fit over any of your previous conquests, I'd be bedridden. You went through Skyhold as if you were some kind of immodest plague," he sniffed.

"What do you want me to say?" Bull shrugged.

"But it's not just bedding someone," Blackwall observed. "The actual act only satisfies primal urges… it's the emotional connection that makes the rapport complex. The emotional is what is threatening to—" He stopped when he saw the amused expressions on Varric, Bull, and Dorian's faces. "What?"

"What have  _you_  been reading?" Varric asked, bewildered.

"So you wouldn't care in the least if I told you I'd been mad about someone else here at Skyhold before you and I met?" Dorian provoked.

Bull's brow furrowed.

"Who?"

Dorian grinned smugly.

"See? No one likes it, Commander."

"No, really. Who?" Bull continued.

"But all I said was that I met the Hero of Ferelden back when I was a young templar at the Circle there. I admitted to a very naive infatuation with her after she liberated our tower…"

"What did you say, exactly?" Varric leaned in, interested.

"Was there really someone else?" Bull wondered, turning to Dorian.

"I just said that I had thanked her…for helping the survivors in the Circle during the attack. We worked together very briefly afterwards and I developed an… admiration for her and perhaps…nurtured a harmless crush…for a couple years, anyway," Cullen explained, omitting the bit on how the Hero had saved his life and how beautiful he'd found her.

"Admiration," Blackwall frowned.

"A crush that lasts years,' Varric nodded at Blackwall knowingly.

"Would I know who he is?" Bull insisted.

"Interesting. Evelyn always seemed so level-headed and unflappable about things," Varric mused.

"I know! Almost too good to be true," Blackwall agreed.

He quickly cleared his throat and gripped his tankard at Cullen's raised eyebrows.

"So I guess it takes a hero to unsettle another hero," Varric chuckled. "Yep, Curly. You made your bed…now you'll have to sleep in it. Alone," he chuckled.

"Ah…To have your problems…You have heroes and I have zeroes," Blackwall grumbled.

"It's that annoying Tristam, isn't it?" Bull accused. "He's always trying to kiss up with his knowledge of Tevinter shit."

Dorian sighed.

"I do hope you appreciate my efforts on your behalf, Commander," he said tartly. "I shall be undergoing my own interrogation momentarily."

Bull appeared to revive at his words.

"Now  _that's_  an idea," he grinned slyly. "I could interrogate you…"

"You do realize I said what I said for effect? To illustrate the point I was trying to make?" Dorian explained.

"I'm going all Ben-Hassrath on you, Vint," Bull continued to grin suggestively. "Every. Bit. Of. You."

Dorian's face remained impassive, except for the half smile that edged up his lips.

"Where are my quill and parchment when I need them?" Varric mumbled.

"Well, lads: enjoy the evening!" Dorian stated hurriedly, plunking down a few coins on the table. "Cullen, just apologize. Profusely." He turned to Bull and grabbed him by the chest strap. "Come on, you!"

Cullen groaned miserably after the two made a rushed exit.

"I cannot believe such a small thing would set her off like that."

"Perhaps. But there could be more to it. You shouldn't just dismiss it," Varric advised.

"I agree with Dorian on this one: you should go talk to her and tell her you are sorry," Blackwall suggested, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Cullen, undoubtedly buoyed by the ale and the manly odor of sweat and camaraderie in the tavern, dug his heels in.

"No. I did nothing wrong.  _She_  is the one being difficult."

He took a large gulp of drink.

"She is the one who should apologize," he concluded, cheered on by his own indignation.

Varric and Blackwall exchanged complicit glances.

"O-ho. This should be good," Blackwall declared, smoothing his beard.

"Anyway, it should all be forgotten by tomorrow," Cullen muttered broodingly, after which Varric and Blackwall erupted into infuriating laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find the Cullen/Inquisitor romance one of the sweetest things. Cullen's such a decent guy. But I can't help thinking: neither he nor Evelyn have really been in a serious relationship before. Yes, they get along beautifully because their feelings are true...But come on...You can't convince me they don't step in it occasionally...They have to have the occasional tiff as they find their way, no?  
> The guy has so much darkness in his life that I can't resist adding a little levity to his stories...


	26. Heroes (Part II)

**26: Heroes (Part II)**

"Before I came here, I was confused about this subject. Having listened to your lecture, I am still confused - but on a higher level."  
― Enrico Fermi

* * *

The morning began promisingly. He'd gotten up before dawn, as was his habit, engaged in some grueling sparring practice with his soldiers, and felt clear headed and focused afterwards. He took his time washing up, shaving, and getting dressed and then had his usual hearty breakfast with some of his scouts before they departed on a week-long mission.

When he bounded into the War Room early, he expected to have time alone to examine some of the matters they would be discussing later that morning. He found his mind wandering to how things would be when Evelyn and he met again, but chased the thought away.

 _It's time for work_ , he told himself.

He was very surprised when Evelyn made an appearance in the room earlier than usual.

"Good morning, Cullen. I was hoping to find you here," she smiled, almost shyly.

_Don't look up or give her the satisfaction of—_

"Can we talk?" she asked, tilting her head.

He finally glanced up.

She looked lovely. She always did, he found. He loved the way loose wisps of hair framed her face, admired the graceful curve of her neck, recalled the sensation of her smooth and warm skin beneath his fingers…. and her soft, yielding lips…

He clenched his fists.

"Yes, good morning," he said brusquely. "I was getting ready for our meeting, but I can spare a few minutes," he cleared his throat, shuffling his papers into a neat pile.

"I've been thinking a lot about yesterday," she said quietly, approaching him.

He crossed his arms over his armor.

"Think nothing of it," he said dismissively.

She appeared a bit taken aback.

"No, no… I'd like to discuss it further with you. I feel like I owe you an apology for my unbecoming behavior."

He was overcome with tenderness for her downcast eyes, her hesitancy. Here was the woman who had walked the Fade, battled demons and abominations fearlessly, tumbled through time, struck fear in the hearts of the Venatori and Red Templars… And that remarkable woman had chosen to give her love to him, and him alone.

"Well, I am glad you admit how foolish you were acting," he stated in an uppity manner. "I think we can move on, now don't you think?"

He hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but he needed to counter the warm, soft feeling that she was inspiring in him.

 _After all, it had been her fault_ , he reasoned.

She had bristled at his tone.

"Yes… I feel there are things…Like, why your telling me about your dalliance with the Hero unsettled me…Those are things I need to share with you."

Varric might as well have been sitting on his shoulder, like a fiendish puppet.

 _There could be more to it. You shouldn't just dismiss it_ …his words from the previous night echoed in his head.

The door creaked and they saw Josephine enter the room.

"Oh, many apologies! Am I intruding?" she stated graciously. "I can come back in a bit, if you'd prefer. I just thought I'd prepare for the meeting…The courier just brought me a letter that isn't on the agenda and that we'll need to discuss."

"Not at all, Ambassador. We were done here," he stated quickly.

Evelyn looked up at him with a hurt expression; she seemed flustered by his words.

He hadn't meant to cut Evelyn off, but he certainly didn't want to give Josephine any reason to believe there was something wrong between them.

 _Work and personal life need to stay separate: there's a time and place for everything_. He knew Evelyn understood that. He was truly glad she had apologized. She was a reasonable person, thankfully, he thought to himself, a faint smile spreading across his lips.

_I am glad common sense and sanguine dispositions have prevailed in the end. As they should._

* * *

The meeting proceeded without a hitch. They'd gotten through an impressive amount of business, he realized, pleased.

For the last matter of business, Josephine drew out a letter from her small stack and brandished it at them.

"The mayor of Havenfell has asked for support in rebuilding their village."

"That's near Haven, isn't it?' Cassandra wondered.

"They suffered heavy damage and casualties when the rift first appeared…and during the attack on Haven," Josephine explained, turning the parchment around.

"They undoubtedly heard of the support we sent Redcliffe and hope we will do the same for them," Leliana frowned.

"Still: they offered our forces aid at a time when few did and the town is still a strategic location…Do we have the personnel to send out to assist them?" Evelyn asked, glancing around the table.

"It's not that, Inquisitor," Josephine continued. "They were actually able to secure assistance from the King and Queen. They took advantage of the King's reversing his ban on mages in Ferelden…They obtained their funding precisely because they were willing to extend an invitation to welcome returning mages."

"It is a good strategy," Cassandra concurred. "Havenfell is far enough from other main towns and villages and they get support in exchange for providing shelter to mages."

"If they already have assistance from the Crown, I don't understand what they want from the Inquisition," Evelyn puzzled.

"They are asking for two things," Josephine continued, more slowly as her eyes perused the document. "Until a decision is made regarding the Circles, they would like us to send guidance on how to work…safely…with the mages. They have heard of our compromise with the mages in Haven and Skyhold."

"Fair enough," Evelyn agreed. "We can train some of their soldiers in the same way we retrained our templars," she suggested. "Cassandra and Cullen, can you select a few of our templars to send?"

"Absolutely," Cassandra nodded along with Cullen.

"Now: the second request is that you, Evelyn, visit Havenfell in person."

Evelyn balked.

"Why?"

Josephine set down the letter.

"Don't underestimate the power and draw of your presence. The mayor reasoned that if the head of the Inquisition herself stops in Havenfell during her travels, then people shouldn't be afraid to go back: businesses, merchants…It's rather pointless to rebuild if no one wishes to return," Josephine concluded.

"Is it safe enough that we should be encouraging others to go?" she asked.

"I did a little research before our meeting and there are some reports of smaller rifts in the area…but nothing unusual." She rifled through her stack of parchments. "Like most rifts, activity is restricted to the immediate surroundings—the entities are dangerous, of course, but fortunately constrained to a small radius, since they constantly need to feed off the rift's energy…Perimeters have been set with relatively minor disruptions."

"I think this is a good opportunity for the Inquisition, Evelyn. By supporting Havenfell, you set the tone before negotiations on the future of Circles and the involvement with the Chantry begin. If people have a clear, successful example of an alternative to the traditional Circle model, it may impact future negotiations," Cassandra argued.

"Yes, but what do we know of this mayor?" Leliana warned. "We know very little about him. He wasn't mayor when Havenfell…erm…fell."

"That's because almost everyone in Havenfell was killed,' Cassandra replied sternly.

"What is your concern?" Josephine asked Leliana.

"I would like to make sure this mayor doesn't have any…connections that could harm or compromise the Inquisition. I wouldn't be adverse to your plan, Cassandra. But I need to check up on a few things before we can commit to anything."

"Morrigan?" Josephine asked. "Your vote?"

"I abstain," she said disinterestedly. "I don't know that you really need me here today," she yawned.

She turned to Cullen. "Commander? Your vote."

"I think that provided the mayor passes Leliana's scrutiny, it's a decent plan. It's draws good attention to our cause. If Evelyn makes a personal appearance, it is bound to encourage people in the area. People need to believe in someone, peg their hopes on a person who fights for them. The truth is," he said pointedly, "people need heroes; everyone loves a good hero. Don't we all? I know I do," he said, cluelessly.

Evelyn appeared crestfallen at his use of the word 'hero.'

"You love  _heroes_?" she asked slowly, deliberately, emphasizing the word.

"Yes!" he interjected. "Since I was a young boy! Heroes are everything we idealize and aspire to."

Evelyn's face clouded and she pressed her lips together.

"So, Commander…what you are saying is that whatever fascination you felt when you were younger for…heroes…still endures?"

"If my faith in the good deeds of heroes were dimmed, I wouldn't be myself, I wouldn't fight for the things I willingly fight for," he explained.

Evelyn grasped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

"Forgive me for saying so, but your affections seem rather misplaced."

Cullen crossed his arms again, standing imposingly over his corner of the table, completely oblivious to the fact his words could have a different interpretation than the meaning he'd intended them to have.

"Pardon?"

"It's an impossible ideal to live up to. You should consider that behind every tale of heroism is a person made of flesh and bone! I will grant you that heroes are remarkable people: selfless, dedicated, gifted…But at the end of the day, they are only human beings! They…they have their faults…their shortcomings…Just like any of us! It's unfair, Cullen. How can anyone live up to—" she began , but quickly fell silent at the completely befuddled stares she was getting from her other advisors.

"I don't know if I agree," Cullen said hotly. "What are you trying to prove? Heroes exist. They are extraordinary, you are right about that, and people are inspired by them! Look at you, Evelyn— you, yourself, are a hero in the people's eyes! You are a hero in a long tradition of heroes!"

He couldn't imagine how hard that particular line would make Varric and the others laugh later on.

She became livid.

"A long tradition?"

"Yes!" he cried.

"Just how long are we talking about?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, Maker! Where do I begin!" He threw his hands up in frustration. "There are so many! You are going to make me list them all?"

She blinked at him slowly, completely disconcerted.

"So I am just another hero among many?" she asked fiercely. "Just another…story…to be told to others someday?"

"That is no small feat and nothing to be vexed by! Not everyone can become a hero, you know! You should be honored to count yourself among such illustrious company," he accused, still deaf to the double entendres.

That finally undid her.

"Well!" she said passionately, her eyes ablaze. "Aren't I fortunate! But forgive me, Commander, if I no longer wish to indulge the imaginations of…of foolish!…and…and infuriating young boys I never ever want to have anything to do with again!" she thundered so angrily that her skin gave off tiny webs of energy. "I relinquish my pedestal in that parthenon! I am through!"

"Young boys? What young boys?" Josephine asked nervously. "We don't have any young boys here— if we do, we shouldn't. We just signed a fair labor and trade law and we need to lead by example," Josephine panicked.

Leliana reached out and placed a placating hand on Josephine's arm while shaking her head. Their eyes were glued to the strange scene unfolding.

"You aren't quitting, are you?" Cassandra asked apprehensively, her brow furrowed.

"No!" Evelyn retorted, between clenched teeth. "I am not stepping down from my responsibilities. This is a different matter… between me and the Commander!"

"Good," she concluded. "I think... I do not know what is happening right now…" she admitted.

"How could you be so cavalier, so calloused, Cullen Stanton Rutherford!" she continued, her voice breaking slightly. "After everything…"

Cullen stared at her in silent alarm. He'd never seen her so upset before. He found himself at a complete loss, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He had no idea what had just transpired between them, but he knew it wasn't good.

She whirled around, marched towards the door, flung it open, and banged it shut behind her.

"Maker…what was that all about?" he said in complete bewilderment.

"If you don't know, how should we?" Cassandra asked crossly.

"There's something terribly familiar about this, isn't there?" Morrigan purred to Leliana. "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…"

"Cullen," Josephine interrupted with cautious amiability, "Is it possible at all that this is a situation similar to what happened at Halamshiral?…"

"What happened there?" Morrigan asked interestedly. "Other than mayhem?"

"He became involved in a conversation with the Viscountess de la Varonne thinking they were discussing the finger foods served and almost found himself betrothed to her youngest daughter…"

Cullen shuddered at the memory.

"Of course, I exaggerate," Jospehine proceded, "but our Commander is no Game player."

"Nor do I intend on becoming one! If I should have to suffer trying to decipher all the double talk—"

And then it hit him. The whole, large, malodorous misunderstanding in all its convoluted glory.

He let out a groan as he rubbed his face.

Morrigan grinned deviously.

"I was mistaken! This was a most interesting meeting, after all!"

* * *

Later that evening, sitting between Varric and Blackwall again, he dropped his head into his hands.

"Somehow, I made it worse," he bemoaned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose= the more things change, the more they stay the same...


	27. Heroes (Part III)

"There's none so blind as those who will not listen."

― Neil Gaiman

* * *

Cullen's tankard of ale might as well have been filled with sawdust instead. The laughter and teasing were becoming unbearable.

"Where do you ever get your romancing advice? It sounds straight out of  _Swords and Shields_!" Dorian chuckled.

"It says very clearly on the cover that it is a work of fiction!" Varric cautioned. "I had to put the disclaimer there…after Aveline threatened to come rip off my chest hair…"

"Why don't you go apologize already?" Blackwall wondered. "Just take yourself to the Main Hall, knock on her door, and tell her you are sorry for the misunderstanding. It's as simple as that."

"Look at you being all sensible an' stuff," Sera giggled, wiggling her fingers in his face. "That's not bad advice, you know. You're actually a big softie, aren't you? I don't get why you aren't a bigger hit with the ladies," she hiccuped, pushing away her empty tankard. "Unless you're a big softie in the pants," she grimaced.

Blackwall turned to her and caressed his lustrous beard.

"All of this isn't for the faint of heart!" he teased. "It'll take a very special lady."

She snorted, drunkenly slapping the table.

"It's not a bad plan, Cullen. This situation is getting to be a bigger deal than it needs to be. Better handle it before it gets out of hand," Varric suggested.

"But—Maker!—I did nothing wrong! She was the one who got jealous! She was the one who misunderstood everything I said! Why do I have to apologize?" Cullen complained, a pained expression in his face.

"Anyone care to take this one?" Varric gestured, appealing to the others.

"You apologize because you regret there was an misunderstanding," Dorian offered.

"Because you were being a sodding arse, that's why," Sera added indignantly.

"Because you love her," Blackwall said simply.

"Because you're never gonna get laid again if you don't," Bull stated.

All of them promptly agreed with that one.

"I would apologize," Cullen began, to which everyone groaned, "but it goes against what I feel the situation warrants. I won't apologize merely to make pretty again. She is the one—"

"You should at least talk to her then," Varric cut him off, dreading another jeremiad on why Evelyn should be the one apologizing.

"Hm," Blackwall approved. "Give her a chance to present her side. Take if from there."

"Come on, let's go!" Dorian pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. "Who's with me! We'll give him moral support until he gets there."

"And make sure he doesn't run away en route…" Varric winked.

"He should go only when he is ready, so I am staying right here," Bull tapped the tabletop.

Dorian grimaced at him.

"That's the kind of strategic miscalculation that exemplifies why the Qunari will never successfully conquer Tevinter," Dorian quipped.

"Miscalculation?… Maybe you are right: I know of at least one Tevinter who is not getting conquered by Qunari tonight." Bull said with annoyance.

"Cullen, my friend, observe carefully: that was a double entendre right there. Did you catch that?" Dorian said flippantly as he made for the entrance.

* * *

They marched across the courtyard, with Cullen feeling uneasy about the plan, but left with no option other than going through with it. As they stopped before the doorway to her quarters, guarded by the sentinels, his small entourage stepped back. The sentinels let him breeze through—they were used to seeing him visit the Inquisitor's quarters. He bounded up the staircases until he found himself before Evelyn's bedroom door. He knocked.

He did not even hear her footsteps as she approached, she was so light footed.

"Evelyn!" he said nervously as the door was flung open.

She was in her nightshirt, a faint glow emanating from the fireplace beyond the small set of steps leading to the expansive room. She must have been reading, he realized affectionately. Always studying, learning, perusing reports, treatises. He was craving that calm and peacefulness that emanated from her, how good she smelled as she curled into him in the bed, and how her face lit up anytime she found a passage worth sharing with him. How many times had he been greeted at that same threshold with welcoming arms flung around his neck, a flurry of kisses over his grinning face, her joyful laughter? He wanted to be there, like in those memories, at that moment.

This time her face was somber. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy.

"I didn't expect to see you," she said sullenly.

"I think we should talk," he said, making a herculean effort not to raise his hand to her face and caress her, brush away the stubborn lock of hair that always fell over her cheek when she was lost in concentration.

"Yes, I think we should," she said at last.

She stepped back and allowed him to enter.

"Evelyn," he began, standing before the balcony door. "This is all a misunderstanding," he said.

She walked up the steps.

"I am hoping it is. I can't believe you'd be so intentionally cruel, Cullen, " she said, standing before him.

 _Makers Breath, she is a vision._ Her nightshirt hadn't been buttoned to the top, revealing the medallion he'd given her, fashioned into a pendant she never took off. Her hair was fastened in a loose braid that rested over her shoulder so charmingly and her eyes shone alluringly in the firelight. If he bent forward just a little bit, he could touch her lips with his…

"Never, Evelyn…I'd never do something cruel to you…" he murmured, staring longingly into her eyes.

She stepped even closer, a hint of expectation in her demeanor, her hands gingerly clasped behind her back.

"It was you, my love, who misunderstood everything…" Cullen informed her.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"You blew things out of proportion, dearest," he continued, in a tone of light censure.

She gave him a hardened glare.

"You are absolutely right," she said with ill-contained frustration. "I was jealous. And I thought you were talking about something when you probably meant another. All this is my doing," she said.

Those were the words he was hoping to hear, but he didn't quite comprehend why they were delivered in such a tone.

"I'm glad we are in agreement, then," he continued, cautiously.

But she wasn't offering him that charming smile she often gave him, she wasn't reaching for him…

 _Something is not right,_  he thought.

"I am glad you got your confession of guilt, Messere, since that appears to be all that matters to you!" she finally exploded. "Are you happy at last?" she cried.

"Evelyn, dearest, why are you so angry?"

"I'm tired of—"

"Then we can go to bed so you can get some rest and gather your wits about—" he began hopefully.

She let out a guttural growl.

"You are unbelievable!"

"What is that supposed to mean? I've been very patient and—"

"And daft! Daft, Cullen! Use your head, that perception, that sharp acumen you seem to possess and apply to everything else except me!" She turned her back to him.

Realization dawned upon him like a clap of thunder and he comprehended, at last, what was the matter. His gaze softened and he began to shake his head.

"Evelyn…I think I understand now. Maker—why didn't I see it before?"

She relented for a moment and glanced back at him. A flash of hope appeared in her eyes before she demurely cast them down.

 _She is so sweet,_  he sighed, approaching her tenderly.

He embraced her from behind, pulling her into his chest, nuzzling the nape of her neck. She let him press a kisses over the side of her neck as she grasped his arms tightly around her.

"Forgive me, love," he whispered. "Why didn't see it before! I'm such a fool!…" he said.

She turned around to face him, her arms circling his waist.

He adored her so very much.

"Do you?" she asked optimistically.

"Of course! The reason is perfectly clear to me now…" he smiled understandingly. "You are at that delicate time of the month, aren't you?" he murmured.

Next thing he knew, she had pulled away from him hastily.

"Out," she growled pointing to the door. "Out! Out!" she shouted.

"Just calm down…Perhaps I could make you some tea? We could turn in early?…" he tried hopefully.

She actually let out a strangled scream.

At that, he showed himself out swiftly.

* * *

Outside, in the Main Hall, the others awaited him. Dorian and Varric leaned against the wall chatting quietly while Sera and Blackwall sat on the steps leading up to the Inquisitor's throne. Sera wore a boozy, contented expression as she made little braids in Blackwall's dark hair.

He was the first to notice Cullen emerge at the entrance, past the sentinels.

"Thank the Maker—pigtails were next! How did it…" his voice faded as Cullen stomped past them in a huff.

"Curly?" Varric called out into the darkened hall, the echo of heavy footfalls carrying back to them.

They all watched in stupefaction as the Commander disappeared out the arched doorway into the evening.

"Shit," Varric lamented.

"Indeed," Dorian sighed.

"Think he ballsed it up?" Sera wondered.

"Aye," Blackwall replied dourly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I echo Varric's sentiment here: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION!  
> But, Maker, why does a specific exasperating exchange feel so autobiographical?...


	28. Heroes (Part IV)

**28: Heroes (Part IV)**

"Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great."

― Roger de Bussy-Rabutin

* * *

Cullen slept badly.

He tossed in his bed, awakening with tangled sheets straining against his legs. He kicked at them as he struggled to unwind himself and find a comfortable position. A mild but persistent headache assailed him.

He was long past the days when he would brace himself against the desperation that seized him in the middle of the night, a dark hunger commanding that he go to his desk's drawer and withdraw old lyrium kit in its fine wooden box for examination. The glass vial of lyrium sitting over red velvet had run dry long ago, but in the turmoil of his recovery, he'd fantasize about adding some water to the caked up residue at the bottom and swirl up just enough for use, for a quick hit… He recalled, with a pang of regret, that the last time he'd suffered severe withdrawal symptoms—and it had truly been a bad one: he'd railed at Cassandra furiously to release him from his duty— it had been Evelyn who'd cared for him, without judgment, and saw him through the worst of it to his recovery. Hers was the unwavering hand offering him relief with cool compresses to his sweat drenched forehead; hers were the fingers soothingly running through his hair as he rested his head on her lap, his chin chattering feverishly. In the evenings she would lie next to him, arms clasping him tightly and reassuringly through all the nightmares…

He looked down despondently at the empty side of his rumpled bed, briefly stroking the surface.

In the morning he awoke with a fever, his chest heaving faster than usual, and he decided he wouldn't risk any relapses. He took himself at the crack of dawn to the one person he was certain would decipher what was happening to him.

* * *

Adan removed his hand from Cullen's wrist. He settled back on the stool he had placed before the cot in the examining room and appeared to be pondering his next words.

"It's never straight forward, Commander. Each person is different…each body handles the withdrawal differently. It's not an exact science when it comes to recovery. It's not common to see the symptoms of the acute phase return so pronouncedly at this point," he concluded. "But rest assured that it isn't rare or unheard of, either."

Cullen haggardly reached for his cloak.

"Still, this isn't something that should concern you…I wouldn't discount the effects of stress…the strain of your duty on your body. It can exacerbate the usual symptoms. These are all unusual factors affecting your physiology," he explained, rising from the stool and moving towards the makeshift examining room's curtained door. "It's just…the circumstances. Yours are quite extraordinary. If I may say so, I think you are doing remarkably well. You have most definitely weathered the worst of it. These lapses just feel like greater setbacks because they are less frequent," Adan reassured him. "I can prescribe you the usual: elfroot extract—"

"That won't be necessary," Cullen interrupted.

"It may help soothe some of the nighttime symptoms."

"It makes me feel groggy in the morning. I'd rather not," he said.

Adan drew the curtain aside to reveal a partially full waiting room. He observed Ava settle a fresh kettle of water over the fire before looking around for his next patient.

"Specialist Thorne," Ava called out to a burly man sitting in the corner with a pitifully miserable expression while cupping his hand to his swollen cheek. "Master Adan will you see you now." She indicated the curtain held open by him.

Cullen crossed into the waiting room.

"Don't hesitate to return if you change your mind, Commander," he nodded helpfully. "It's a simple enough prescription to fill."

"It's my toof," Specialist Thorne mumbled intrusively, standing between the two men.

"Of course it is! You didn't listen to me last time and now I shall have to extract it!" Adan growled.

"Will it hurt?" Specialist Thorne asked apprehensively.

"Horribly!" he said indignantly.

Cullen's eyebrows went up and he stepped aside, just as Ava dashed over to them.

"Don't you fret, I have something to dull the pain during the procedure," she said kindly to the terrified Thorne. "And here is something to dull  _your_  crankiness," she said to Adan pointedly, slipping a warm cup of tea into his hands. Adan found his scowl softening into a grin. "Don't you let him scare you," she continued, giving the poor man's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "You are in excellent hands," she winked.

She turned back to Cullen as the other two disappeared beyond the curtain. Wiping her hands hastily in a tea towel, she pointed at the entrance, where a huddled form sat, motionless.

"He arrived shortly after you entered the examining room with a message, Commander…but I am afraid he's fallen asleep since…"

Cullen felt a surge of irritation.

"Private Chauncey!" he bellowed.

Chauncey's eyes fluttered open in bewilderment, and he sprang back to his feet, unsteadily. As he swung his arm out to salute his Commander, it swiped cleanly across a stack of tins on the counter beside him. The clatter of the metallic containers crashing to the stone floor resonated loudly in Cullen's head and he winced slightly from the discomfort. Chauncey was, as usual, completely flustered. Ava and he observed as the gangly lad frantically attempted to collect all the fallen containers in one swoop, his rear very prominently bobbing in the air.

"It's all right, Private," Ava told him, "we'll take care of it later."

"What's the message?" Cullen said impatiently.

Chauncey whirled around trying to salute while still holding an armful of tins in his arms. One solitary container fell to the floor.

"Commander!" he cried out, startling the other patients in the waiting area.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing it soothingly.

"Urgent message for you," he gulped.

They stood in an awkward, expectant silence.

"Yes?…" Cullen urged him on meaningfully.

Ava stepped away, returning to her patient, a woman with a broken arm.

"Just that, Commander. Urgent message for you. Struthers told me to tell you to return to the armory so he could give you the message."

Cullen suppressed the urge to smirk.

"He said it was from…From somewhere that…Umm…" he paused, scratching his head, forcing himself to remember the instructions he'd been given. "I think…it was somewhere that sounded like…'Breeze?' Or was it 'freeze'?"

"Emprise?" Cullen risked, puzzled.

Chauncey pursed his lips, uncertain.

"You know," he pondered. "It might have been something like… the Wishing Hastes."

"Hissing Wastes," Cullen corrected. The throbbing ache at the back of his head grew more persistent.

"No…no…It wasn't that either…Maybe it was—"

"Let's go, Private!" he cut him off in a booming voice.

Chauncey immediately headed for the door.

Cullen hoped he could get through the day. It wasn't even mid morning yet.

* * *

Sweat trickled down his neck into his armor.

He was drenched, exhausted, and restless. He'd worked all afternoon with his soldiers, throwing himself into the sparring drills with abandon, long after official practice had ended. As dusk fell over Skyhold and the last soldiers who'd remained to observe and attempt to best their Commander went off to the barracks, he found himself at that unpleasant time of the day, confronting what would undoubtedly be another long stretch of sleepless night. He lingered fussily over his chores: collecting his equipment, sorting everything back at the armory, the quartermaster stepping carefully around him as he went about the tedious business with a determined focus. If it weren't getting dark soon, he would have gone another round against the poor dummies outside.

The meeting at the War Table that morning had been ridiculous, he thought. Neither Evelyn nor he had addressed any words to one another other than the most basic greetings… and even those had been staid and cool. If he weren't so upset, the whole situation would have been comical. Evelyn had enlisted Josephine as their messenger: she'd been charged to tell him to send the scouts further west. He reciprocated, by asking Josephine to tell Evelyn that it was an ill-advised course of action— at least until they had negotiated the establishment of a camp larger than a simple away camp. Poor Josephine had delivered all their messages for the duration of the meeting, even as they stood a mere few paces apart from each other.

Her greatest diplomatic challenge, he thought with a sour smirk.

He stared at the Main Hall's entrance as he slammed the armory door behind him. Above, the first stars of the evening had begun to glimmer in the rapidly darkening sky.

Evelyn knew all the constellations, he remembered, recalling the evenings they'd stolen away to his bedroom. Before the hole in the roof had been patched, on clear nights he'd dragged the bed beneath it so they could peer up at the sky together. He'd watch her face as she searched her memory for the different patterns, eagerly identifying them for him, her finger pointing up into the heavens, tracing outlines of animals, gods, legends, while her head rested on his shoulder. Once he'd made her laugh hard by pretending he knew them all too, and made foolish things up as he pointed. She'd played right along with him.

"That one there is the "The Commander," she teased.

"Ah! Is he in pursuit of the Mage Maiden?" he grinned.

"I don't know," she'd said.

He'd been looking up, not realizing how long she had been gazing at him. When their eyes finally met, she held his stare meaningfully.

"You don't know? Why, this is a first!" he expressed false surprise.

"When he is out in the night sky, everything pales in comparison," she'd said. "I only see him," she'd told him.

That night she'd confessed how deeply she loved him.

It was as if his heart would burst. An anguish he couldn't put words to weighed on his chest.

"Nice evening isn't it?" a low voice startled him from his stargazing reverie.

Sitting on the low stone wall by the practice ring was Bull. He had something round and reddish orange on his lap and appeared to be whittling at it with his pocket knife. He watched the Qunari carefully peel the skin off what appeared to be fruit in a tidily carved spiral. Bull then pried the fruit's fleshy center apart, splitting it into tidy halves. He offered him one, after tucking a small piece into his mouth.

"Try it. These come from northern Antiva," he explained.

Cullen hesitated, wondering what the cost of such a delicacy would be. He was in no mood to be laughed at, teased, or urged to condemn himself even more than he already had.

"Go ahead!" Bull waved the fruit towards him. "One more day and it'll go bad. The merchant buys these still green." He admired the pulpy segment in his hand. "They ripen during their trip here. By the time they reach us, they only have a day or two—tops."

Cullen finally extended his hand and took the offering, leaning stolidly against the wall. He ventured a bite and a succulent sweetness with a hint of tartness filled his mouth.

It  _was_  good, he nodded slowly.

"The ones back home are even sweeter," Bull sighed, glancing down at the fruit. "But this comes pretty damned close!" He gestured to Cullen. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," he finally said.

"So…you and I should talk," he said plainly.

"So you can heap on advice like the others?" Cullen asked suspiciously.

"No!" he interjected. "I merely want to prepare you for the inevitability of being conquered by the Qun and I am hoping the knowledge we have fruit such as this will make the transition more pleasant," he joked.

Cullen glanced at him sideways.

Bull laughed heartily.

"Relax, Cullen! I'm kidding," he said amusedly. "Kind of," he goaded him. "But…where were we?"

"If you are going to tell me to go prostrate myself before Evelyn's feet and beg for forgiveness, you'll be wasting your breath," Cullen interrupted, predicting the course of the conversation.

"Not at all," Bull continued.

Cullen crossed his arms irritatedly.

"Then what do you want to talk about?"

"Mages," he sighed. "Relationships with them can be challenging, don't you think?" He bit into another juicy segment.

"I'll say," Cullen muttered, perching himself beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chauncey...why do I like that boy wreaking havoc so much? Someone find me some Ben-Hassrath to help me understand...


	29. Heroes (Part V)

"Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real."  
― Iris Murdoch

* * *

"Do you know one of the reasons the Qun doesn't encourage long-lasting pairings?" Bull mused, tearing off another segment of fruit and popping it on his tongue.

Cullen chewed silently.

"Because it was clear early on that there are only so many allegiances one can pledge at once in life. Love—be it for a child, parent, spouse…a beloved— is serious competition." He furrowed his brow pensively. "But it makes everything more real…more worthwhile, doesn't it? To pick up our weapons in the defense of a loved one rather than some abstract notion of duty. Even the Qun can't ignore this, which is why it doesn't outlaw such relationships outrightly."

He stared down at the peels resting in his lap.

"People are… reeducated… for much less." He looked up again and smirked. "Some things I miss," he admitted. "Others, not so much…But…The Qun knows that for the ones we love, we are capable of making brash decisions…and also… the most noble sacrifices." He paused and smirked, shaking his head. "And yet… why is all that stuff easier to do than to make up after a dumb fight?" he wondered.

"I tried. Several times." Cullen warned him, unwilling to pursue the topic further.

They remained in silence, savoring the remainder of their fruit, observing the lamplighters move across the courtyard purposefully with their poles— a lit wick shimmering on one end, a hook to extinguish the flames on the other.

"Mages…All that power…Yet, you'd never guess, would you?" Bull marveled, turning to him.

Cullen peered up curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't," he emphasized.

"How mages are so sensitive…Their receptiveness to the Fade seems to make them responsive to the smallest things…In every way," Bull said suggestively.

Cullen's face turned vermillion as the memory flashed before his eyes: a fleeting caress over her skin, her breath hitching and her eyes inviting him, contemplating him with heady desire. She unfurled, blossomed like a flower at his touch…

Bull burst out laughing.

"See? You know exactly what I am talking about, Commander!"

Cullen glanced away self consciously.

_Certain things are sacred. Private._

He'd protect that. Her.

 _Maker_ , he lamented, missing her something terrible.

"Do you know what I used to find absolutely puzzling?" Bull continued, despite Cullen's reticence to answer. "Dorian. Took me a little while to figure him out. Here is this man, witty, intelligent and well-educated, handsome…"

"Yes?" Cullen urged him to complete the thought.

"Strong, muscular…Well endowed—" Bull listed appreciatively.

"I GET IT!" Cullen cried out.

Bull cleared his throat, wiping his massive hands on his pantaloons.

"Mages are very sensitive, deeply feeling individuals. Perhaps they yearn to belong so much and stake a claim among us because a part of them already belongs to the Fade. They strive to please, to win approval," he concluded. "Take Dorian, for instance. He is Tevinter, raised to take pride in his power. Still, he had to hide his true nature, saw that the people who should have offered him unconditional love and support would have changed him at the first opportunity. That shook him to his core. His defiance, his apparent indifference may fool most… but not me. He protects himself from getting hurt, from getting too close or attached precisely when he needs understanding and affection the most. It's a subtle thing, but I finally understood it. You'd think nothing fazed him…And yet…" He snorted, staring ahead pensively. "Mages tend to be insecure."

Cullen paused.

_Insecure?_

He'd watched Evelyn confront the unthinkable and emerge from the rubble triumphant time and again. He admired her grit, her clear and unwavering sense of justice. He'd watched her ponder complex decisions, agonizing over the morality of her choices. How many times had he seen her demand that Leliana temper her actions? She had rekindled an idealism among them they'd all thought long-lost in the morass of the past. How often had she wandered off on unrelated detours to help those less fortunate? Evelyn could be difficult and stubborn, but she did not shirk her duties, her responsibilities, or doing what she believed was right. She had earned his admiration early on, he realized, through her graciousness, kindness, and generosity at a time when few were willing to extend her the same. How could such a formidable person be insecure?

"I don't know if I agree," Cullen stated. "Evelyn is one of the bravest people I know."

Bull shrugged.

"I'm not questioning her courage or integrity," Bull told him. "But I wonder how all that pressure affects someone who had previously been a very scholarly Circle mage."

Cullen crossed his arms, listening.

"As a noble she enjoyed more freedoms than the average mage…but at the end of the day, she was told, all her life, she had to be confined to a tower because she was dangerous. Her own family surrendered her. Don't you think that does all kinds of things to a person's head?"

Cullen looked up sheepishly.

Hadn't he believed something along those lines until relatively recently?

"Sometimes I think she pushes herself so much because she has something she wants to prove. As if she wanted to show people…their fears are unwarranted. That perhaps, she is worthy, after all," Bull confided.

Cullen didn't know what to say.

"It must be hard to be held in such high regard due to an accident," Bull went on. "Because that's what she thinks, you know. For all the respect she shows the Chantry, she would never believe she was chosen by Andraste...I saw her disappointment as she regained her memories in the Fade. And there is that side of hers. The one that believes she isn't good enough, that buys into the danger and corruption mages are told they represent. She knows very well that the reason many people attach any value to her has to do with something that could have easily befallen any of us had we been there in the same circumstances."

"She's much more than just that mark," Cullen snapped. "Just look at all she's done! The mark was an opportunity, a mere tool. Thedas is a better place with her in it," he said heatedly.

Bull nodded.

"But I wonder how often she tells herself not to mess it all up. This is a unique opportunity: all eyes are on her, watching. The fate of so much at play."

"I think she is handling herself admirably."

 _Well, except for that morning's tragic meeting,_  he frowned. And he was just as guilty. Cullen sighed deeply and they sat quietly, watching a group of soldiers wander to the Herald's Rest up ahead. As the tavern door opened, the sounds of laughter and music emanated from within.

"Evelyn loves you, Commander."

"As do I!" he protested, stung by the insinuation that perhaps he didn't.

"And she holds you in very high regard. She is probably afraid, though, that you won't find her worthy. My guess is she is very afraid of losing you."

Cullen turned to him in bewilderment.

"After all, you were far more worldly and experienced than she was when you both met," he explained.

Cullen balked.

"I was a  _templar_! Almost as cloistered away as she was."

"Cullen, you are older and you've enjoyed freedoms she has only experienced superficially. Even now, despite all her power, she is entrapped. She bears a heavy burden…and there is that part of her that feels inadequate, like it has no business standing by your side…She can keep her fears at bay as long as she senses she is doing great deeds…fulfilling her role…proving her worth…But look what happened when you mentioned an innocent crush…on the Hero of Ferelden, no less, someone definitely worthy, in Evelyn's eyes," Bull chuckled. "That brought all the insecurities up."

"So what was I supposed to do? Pretend I have no past? Hide anything that might upset her? Not mention my personal history?" he asked, exasperatedly. "Why am I the one being punished for just…being myself?"

Bull took a deep breath.

"I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. All I am saying is: be aware of it. Understand it. That's all."

Cullen's head reeled in confusion.

"I don't know what to do! I want to make it better, but I don't know how!"

Bull looked at him with an approving expression.

"Tell me something: did you tell her that?"

"What?"

"What you just told me. That you want to make things better, but don't know how."

"Of course not! What a stupid thing to say to someone," Cullen sulked, leaning back into the wall.

"It's the truth. And… it's the only thing that might work."

Cullen scratched the back of his neck doubtfully.

"Trust her. And meet her halfway. Just your willingness to do so would mean a lot to her."

He exhaled loudly.

"You think I should talk to her right now?" he asked suddenly.

Bull hid his amusement.

"I'd wash first. You're rather… sweaty from all that sparring…Unless, of course, she's into that. Some people are. Gives them a real rush—"

"Hitting the baths! Thank you, Bull!" Cullen quickly interrupted, hurriedly making his way to the stairwell.

Bull watched as the Commander disappeared into the doorway down the courtyard and swept the peels off his lap.

"There you are," he heard a voice call out behind him.

He turned his head around to find Dorian bounding down the steps from the Main Hall. He could tell from the mage's gait that he was in a foul, foul mood.

"How was the meeting?"

"A blithering bore," Dorian sneered. "I don't know why I bother. Why can't anyone see that it is better to allocate the funds to import fewer, but more valuable titles, than just fill up the shelves with useless nonsense!"

"You'll be the only one reading those valuable titles, you know," Bull grinned sympathetically as the mage approached him.

"I can't help it! I actually like to fill my head with  _useful_  knowledge and information, not just the scandalous serial of the moment." He flicked a bit of fruit rind off Bull's belt after staring at it indignantly.

"Is that a jab at Varric?"

"At him, at our Head Librarian, at our Seeker…Et tu, Cassandra!" he cried out, pointing accusingly at the shadowy figure wandering towards the tavern.

"Oh, give it a rest, Dorian. They'll order some of the books you requested, but people need their entertainment," Cassandra declared unapologetically. She held the door open as she slipped inside. "Are you coming?"

"We'll be right in," he told her.

He glanced back at Bull after the door shut.

"I'm not staying long. I'm hardly good company tonight. Just one beer. I also think I did something to my shoulder," he complained, rotating it as he flashed a pained grimace. "It's that staff…I need to have it weighted properly—it's wearing down in places and out of alignment now. It's doing a number on me," he complained irritably.

"I'll take off with you when you're ready," Bull said appeasingly. "And I'll take a look at that shoulder, too."

He saw the mage's tense expression ease.

"I'd like that," he admitted.

Bull leaned in slightly and sniffed.

"You smell nice."

"You noticed?" Dorian asked, pleasantly surprised.

"You? Always," Bull raised an eyebrow charmingly.

The mage finally smiled.

"All right… I think I might have two beers, then," Dorian decided, as he opened the door for them.

* * *

 

Cullen rifled through his armoire. All through his bath he'd felt compelled to hurry, his impatience growing, eager to reach Evelyn soon. He pat his hands over his cheeks, glad he had shaved even if the sentries guarding her door were forced to turn him away. The thought gave him pause.

_What if she doesn't want to see me?_

He shook his head. He had to try.

He swiftly slid down the ladder to his office, his feet hitting the ground with a loud thud, and gripped the doorknob firmly. As he flung the door open, he found himself facing none other than Evelyn, her hand raised in a fist, aimed at the door.

"Evelyn!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

"Should I not have come?" she asked nervously. "Were you on your way somewhere?"

"Come in," he extended his arm towards his office. "This bodes well," he said, pleased. "I was on my way to see you."

"Oh?" she said, surprise registering in her eyes. "Well, then. That's…Yes, that bodes well, indeed."

She didn't enter the room, however.

"Do you have a moment then?" she tilted her head towards the ramparts. "For us to talk?"


	30. Heroes (Part VI)

**30: Heroes (Part VI)**

"Ring the bells that still can ring  
Forget your perfect offering  
There is a crack in everything  
That's how the light gets in."

― Leonard Cohen

* * *

Evelyn's hands traveled over the crenelated parapet as they strolled down the ramparts, both she and Cullen skirting conversation with awkward silence. Their eyes gazed at the landscape beyond the walls as if they were taking inventory of it for the first time ever. A mild breeze carried the tails of the fortress' flags. Cullen didn't know what to do. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, that spell—her presence— would be broken, and she would be whisked away again. Maybe this time, for good.

 _The truth,_  he remembered uneasily.

"Evelyn," he spoke up. "I want to tell you something."

They came to halt and she peered at him a bit apprehensively.

_Can I blame her?_

He found how her brow furrowed just so when she focused on anything intently incredibly charming. At that moment, devoid of armor, her staff, all the formal regalia of her office, she appeared so vulnerable to him. He remembered the slender woman who stubbornly trained alongside his soldiers, determined to prove that she wouldn't be just some symbolic figurehead for the Inquisition. The weight of the longsword he had very intentionally issued her had made her grimace and strain as she tried to raise it; but even if her arms shook and buckled under the weight, she persistently and stubbornly showed up for training. Her body had changed since he'd first held her close: from delicate, almost fragile, to strong, well defined…and even scarred, he thought, remembering the injuries she'd sustained in Adamant and in the Fade. Adamant had been a nightmare come true; the memory of her tumbling towards what he was sure was death had become his definition of complete despair. As he recalled how he'd felt and contemplated her, so close to him, it didn't matter that she was the mighty Inquisitor. He loved her and he still wanted to embrace her, reassure her, shelter her.

"Can I be honest? Perfectly honest?" he asked, stopping before one of the doors to a passageway connecting the ramparts.

"I… would expect nothing less," she stammered, bewildered.

"I want to make things better between us," he confessed longingly. "But I don't know where to begin…"

She pressed her lips together averting her eyes.

"I miss you. I am missing you right now, even as you stand before me. This estrangement between us isn't right—but you need to help me. I am sorry you are upset with me. That, Maker, I am. But tell me how I can make it better, because I had no intention of hurting your feelings…and yet I did," he said earnestly.

She examined his face, lingering on his eyes, contemplating them ever so pensively.

"Please don't give up on me," he urged her.

For a tense moment he interpreted her silence as disapproval. When she covered her face with her hands, he thought he was done for.

"Look at what I have done! Why would you ask such a thing?"

He held still, confused.

"Why would you ever want to be with someone who chastises you for a time before we had even met," she continued, her face buried in her hands. "Someone as spiteful, as childish, as I have been?"

He moved his hand towards her, but stopped halfway. The condescending "there, there," froze on his lips.

 _Listen. There is meaning behind the words_ , he told himself.

She appeared so upset, so distraught.

"I don't think of you that way at all! And I don't like to see you like this," he said gently. She finally glanced up at him. "What can I say to reassure you…"

Her eyes were filled with tears. He felt a pang in his chest.

_Because of me?_

"What can I do to convince you of my feelings, Evelyn?"

"Even though I was so angry and horrid to you?" she asked mournfully.

"Yes, well—" he started, but quickly fell silent.

The inquisitive look in her eyes alerted him that she was hanging on to his every word. It was no time to bask in any perceived vindication. He collected his thoughts and took a deep breath.

"Evelyn, I'm not very good at this. I know you feel bad about what happened…I know I feel terrible about it too. And I also know we are bound to do something similar again," he cautioned. She watched him warily. "But," he began, taking her hand in his and clasping it tightly against his chest, "there is no one else I would rather make these mistakes and learn with. Will you be patient with me?" he asked sincerely.

"If you will be patient with me," she sniffed, squeezing his hand back.

"Tolerate my faults?" he asked.

"If you tolerate mine," she said, a faint smile starting to emerge on her lips.

"Get as angry as you'd like, but not leave me?" he asked, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

"No, I don't want to be apart again," she shivered.

He tilted his head at her, relief in his expression.

They began speaking at the same time.

"I love—"

"You."

* * *

 

It was Leliana's voice cheerfully calling from behind the door early that morning. As he blinked his eyes open, he saw Evelyn standing with her back turned, adjusting the hastily tossed on tunic. She glanced over her shoulder and upon seeing him awaken, leaned over.

"I'll be right back," she whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek.

He watched her saunter down the steps and listened to the door creak open.

"I forgot we had arranged to meet this early," he heard Evelyn apologize very softly.

He couldn't understand all the words they exchanged in hushed tones, catching only the occasional word or phrase. From what he gleaned, Evelyn had asked to postpone the morning meeting, earning them a small reprieve from the maelstrom of activity that engulfed them on a daily basis. Evelyn thanked her, but before the door shut, Leliana impishly called out:

"Good morning, Cullen!"

_Worth her salt, that spymaster. Did anything get by her?_

He replied tersely, with just a hint of annoyance.

But in truth, the ribbing was nothing, he thought, as he watched Evelyn make her way back to the bed, hastily free herself from the superfluous tunic. He yearned to touch her, pull her against him, warm and inviting, coaxing from her those tantalizing sighs that ignited a deep, inebriating bliss.

 _What had we been arguing about, anyway?_  he wondered vaguely as she slipped between the covers he held up for her.

He knew, as their limbs entwined, that there would be other tiffs, spats, and misunderstandings. He thought, as they became lost in each other's gaze, her need for him stoking his desire for her, that those other, bitter moments they'd face, would be worth weathering for the closeness and wholeness they felt with each other.

Later on, as they lay in each other's arms, laughing lightheartedly, speaking to each other in murmurs, all right in the world, he knew he would take it, just the way it was, their perfect imperfections and all.


	31. What the Eyes Can't See (Part I)

**31: What the Eyes Can't See (Part I)**

"If he had had all Peru in his pocket, he would certainly have given it to this dancer; but Gringoire had not Peru in his pocket; and besides, America was not yet discovered."  
― Victor Hugo

* * *

 

Almira was fed up. Fed up with being told what to do, hauling heavy packs and satchels from the cart to the stall on the courtyard at Skyhold. Her father watched her, sour-faced, knowing precisely the foul thoughts she had conjured and was stirring as he bossed her around.

 _Heavy. Everything weighed so much_. She blew the strands of hair off her face and sighed. The vendor from Orlais, Belle, always looked so lovely.

 _Who wouldn't want to browse her wares_ , she wondered, leaning her elbow on the edge of their stand and resting her chin on her balled up fists while contemplating the coquettish woman smiling sweetly while informing her potential customer of the devastating prices.

She never stopped smiling, even as she engaged in a ferocious back-and-forth, negotiating the final price.

 _From thirty gold pieces to twenty-four. Not bad. Not bad at all_ , Almira thought.

A Shem approached their stall, picking through their wares with a rather disdainful expression.

"How much for this bundle of rashvine?" he finally asked.

"6 gold," Almira lied.

The man's eyebrows shot up.

"That is absurd."

Almira was smiling. She kept telling herself it was a charming smile, but the man's perplexed expression indicated it was likely he found her rather terrifying.

"For you, I'll make it 5 gold and 5 silver."

The man balked.

"Ridiculous!" he tossed the bundle back on the table and turned away just as her father returned from stabling his horse.

"Messere, do you need any help finding anything? We carry the finest reagents—"

"At the most exorbitant prices!" the man cried. "A bundle of rashvine at 6 gold? Highway robbery!"

Her father shot her a murderous glare.

"Well, rashvine is in high demand," he lied, " but for our friends at Skyhold, we can most definitely find a more agreeable price," he added amiably.

The man seemed to pause, examining her father carefully before relenting and agreeing to peruse their wares once more.

After the Shem left, her father said nothing. He'd managed to sell the man several herb bundles at a marginal profit.

"I thought he would negotiate with me," she grumbled at last.

"You were too greedy," he chastised her.

"I was willing to haggle down to 2 gold."

Her father snorted, half annoyed, half amused.

"For something that has a market value of 7 silver? Go on!"

Almira grimaced and pointed at Belle.

"She does it ALL the time,"

Belle looked up from the book she was reading behind her stall.

"Pardon?" she asked, confused.

"You. You overcharge your customers and still manage to sell your wares for more than the market price," Almira said bluntly.

Belle's eyes narrowed shrewdly.

"My wares are the finest quality. That is why they command such a high price."

"No, that isn't it," Almira continued, incensed. "You dress all nice and speak all primly so that people are too embarrassed to haggle with you! Me and my dad? We're elves! Fair price  _my arse_! Everyone treats elves like sh—"

"Almira!" her father said sharply as Belle looked away disgustedly at the outburst.

"It's the truth!" she huffed.

"I'm going to wring your neck," her father snarled quietly. "You are particularly bad today. What's gotten into you?"

The family business. That itinerant lifestyle they had, never stopping anywhere for too long, sleeping in wagons, washing in frigid brooks and creeks, eating and sometimes not eating, and the tedious hauling of their wares everywhere they alighted.

She sulked, kicking at the stand's legs until her father slapped his own face in an act of frustration. He was about to utter something to her in his usual growly fashion when they were interrupted by a customer.

Not just a customer, Almira remarked. A  _glorious_  customer.

He was the most fascinating man she had ever seen.

 _For a Shem, that is_ , she corrected herself. Then she smiled deviously.  _Oh, heck, even for an elf_ , she thought giddily.

Dusky skin, dark wavy hair closely shorn along the sides of his head, hazel eyes flecked with gold. He spoke in a low, quiet voice.

"Got any elfroot? I'd just as well go off and pick it myself, but our healer needs some right away."

"Is it to treat you? Do you need any healing and comforting?" she asked saucily.

"Five bunches of dry herb, one silver. Ten for one silver and ten coppers," her father told him.

"I'll take ten," he decided, reaching into his coin pouch.

"I can carry them for you!" Almira offered excitedly.

Both her father and the man glanced at the small, light bunches that could easily be carried in two hands.

"It's a special service we offer our new customers," she grinned encouragingly.

At the stall next to them, Belle scoffed.

"Some of us treat our customers well," Almira said in an onerous tone.

Belle continued to stare ahead, shaking her head.

"I didn't see you move a finger to carry the crate of reagent containers for your other customer earlier," Belle said maliciously.

"He was quite robust," she quipped, "and could handle the crate well on his own!" she protested.

The handsome young man smirked, crossing his arms.

"So what you are saying is that I don't look like I could handle this bundle of elfroot?" he asked amusedly.

She panicked for a moment, but then smiled. He was teasing her.

"Not at all! Not at all! It's part of our Inquisition Soldiers Appreciation program," she flirted.

"Oh, is it?" he laughed, surprised. "What else is offered in this program?"

 _Me_ , Almira thought lustily.

"I can tell you all about it as I carry your purchase," she winked, seizing the bundles before her father could hand them off. "Watch the stall, will you?" she said brazenly to her bewildered father.

She stepped around her father and stood next to the alluring man. He contemplated her with a mirthful expression, a half grin on his attractive features, so enticing and strong in his armor.

"Where to?" she asked, ceremoniously holding the elfroot bundles.

"The Herald's Rest," he pointed up a steep staircase. "You sure you can handle all that?" he joked.

"If I can't I am sure you'll lend me a hand, won't you?" she contemplated him appreciatively.

Very appreciatively.

This time he laughed, and she liked the way he looked at her, his lips parted slightly, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her.

"My name's Almira," she announced, turning on her heels so swiftly her long braid almost whipped him in the face. "What's yours?" she asked.

"Krem," he told her, following her, watching her hips undulate seductively as she climbed up the steps before him.


	32. What the Eyes Can't See (Part II)

 

"Clever as the Devil and twice as pretty."

― Holly Black

* * *

 

Dalish and Skinner exchanged wary expressions as they listened to Almira's seductive pablum at the table behind them.

"Feisty, this one…" Dalish muttered, shaking her head at the last volley of giggles.

"Ouf," Skinner mumbled, unimpressed. "This is really terrible."

Almira laughed raucously at something Krem said. An errant elbow jabbed Skinner's shoulder.

"Sorry!" Stitches quickly proffered, turning to the glum pair. "Didn't see you two there."

"No, he was more interested in the two there," Skinner whispered suggestively, indicating Almira's generous breasts.

Dalish pursed her lips, watching how proud Krem appeared to be as the other dolts in their group gaped at the very forward Almira, who only had eyes for him.

"Think she knows?" Skinner squinted, curious.

"At the rate she's going, we'll find out soon enough," Dalish continued.

"Don't look now but she grabbed his arm again," Skinner informed her.

Dalish rolled her eyes derisively.

Both women turned to glance over their shoulders, scowls on their faces.

"Did you see? She's pretending to be drunk after one tankard and is cozying up to him."

"Pssh! He's grinning like the village idiot with pie at the fair," Skinner concluded.

Another high pitched giggle washed over the two causing them to grimace. They silently sipped from their tankards, staring blankly ahead. They weren't unaccustomed to watching the Chargers' odd mating rituals: from Rocky's ill-fated pick up lines ("I'm very good with my hands! I handle delicate explosives all the time!") to Grim's disconcerting success ("He's got this…quiet strength…" a conquest had confided in them once) but Almira was grating on their nerves.

"Here comes the chief," Dalish said with relief, nodding at Bull as he stepped into the tavern.

The Iron Bull sauntered over, amicably slapping backs in passing and exchanging quick greetings.

"What did I miss?" he asked, halting before Dalish and Skinner's table, glancing over the small mob scene behind them.

"Nothing…Just Amateur Hour," Dalish indicated Almira, seated farther away, with a thrust of her chin.

Bull turned to look at the buxom elf who was twirling her hair in a beckoning manner as she spoke to Krem.

"Who's that?" he asked surprisedly.

"We aren't sure, but we think we hate her," Skinner decided.

Bull chuckled.

"All right, Krem!" he said quietly, offering his Lieutenant a thumbs up.

Krem winked at him, stretching his arm further across the back of Almira's chair.

Dalish and Skinner both groaned.

"Why did you go and do that for?" Dalish chastised him.

"She's a redhead!" Bull stated, as if that answered all of the cosmos' questions. "And she is obviously interested."

"I don't know why, but I don't think this is going to go well," Skinner sighed.

"I agree," Dalish seconded. She turned to Bull again, "It's Dalish intuition," she explained. "There is something about her…I just can't put my finger on it…" she continued, pensively.

"Finger? You'd need two whole hands to grasp what she's offering!" Bull said with a twisted grin. knowing fully well it would rile the two up. He braced himself for the inevitable tempest that would follow.

* * *

 

When Almira finally got Krem to follow her out of the tavern alone, she wasted no time in trying to push him against the wall. Except that she did not possess enough strength to actually do so and ended up giving him a pathetic little shove.

"What was that for?" he asked surprisedly and terribly entertained by her antics.

In her mind the whole scene had played out so differently.

"I was," she explained slightly tipsily, "attempting to foist you against the wall so I could…do something to you."

"Rob me of my coin bag?" he arched an eyebrow at her provocatively.

"I don't know how to quite explain it," she teased. "Here, let me show you," she said quietly, guiding his back up against a wall in the out of the way corner they had wandered towards.

She had to step up on her toes to reach his lips with hers and at first they kissed tentatively, almost gingerly. Soon enough they found themselves enmeshed in each other, their breaths rapid, her hands running through his hair, messing it every which way. It was a splendid make-out session, she thought. And how interesting that he didn't merely grope and paw at her—he actually seemed to restrain himself.

 _What a nice change_ , she mused.  _A fine, respectful sort._

It made her want him more. So when she pressed her body up against his and attempted to slip her hand down past his belt, he jumped and seized her hand.

"Slow down, Almira!" he complained.

She grinned hazily.

"Let's go to your room."

He gripped her wandering hand tighter, swallowing hard.

"Not tonight," he told her.

 _He's playing hard-to-get,_ she surmised with delight.  _That's normally my role!_

"Why?" she pouted playfully, wrapping her arms around his neck

"I think we should get to know each other a bit better," he told her, suddenly sober.

She tilted her head.

"But that's precisely what I am suggesting! I'd like to get to know you a whole lot better…" she informed him sultrily.

"Let me walk you back to where you are staying," he offered, gently unhitching her arms from around his neck.

When she realized he was actually serious and that she wasn't getting anywhere with him, she huffed and crossed her arms.

"I am practically  _throwing_  myself at you," she grumbled.

Krem clenched his jaw while running his fingers through his hair.

"I know. So don't make this more difficult than it is, all right?"

She stepped back, staring at him with a mix of exasperation and admiration.

"Now this is a first! I've never met a man like you!"

Krem began making his way towards the steps down to the lower courtyard. At her words, he glanced over his shoulder with an arresting gaze that melted her.

"Oh, I am definitely like no other man you have met," he said slyly.


	33. What the Eyes Can't See (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not sure if this warrants it or not, but better be safe than sorry: Trigger warning for sexual harassment in this chapter.

 

"Respect for ourselves guides our morals; respect for others guides our manners"  
― Laurence Sterne

* * *

Almira bit her nails as she ran the stall the next day.

 _Maybe he doesn't like me_ , she fretted.

She tossed back the incorrect change to her customer and glowered at him when he complained.

"Almira, where is your head?" her father tapped at his own skull as he urged her to be more attentive.

 _I was probably too forward_ , she concluded.  _But that's just how I am. Plus, we move around so often, I don't have the luxury of being too coy._

 _Never had any complaints before_ , she thought dourly.

Belle was especially irritating that morning.

"How's that Soldiers Appreciation program?" she asked Almira mockingly once she caught her staring.

" _Inquisition_  Soldiers Appreciation program," she corrected the haughty vendor.

"I haven't seen you conducting it anymore," Belle stated cattily.

"It's built into our business," she quickly replied. "In how we don't overcharge people for crap—"

"Almira!" her father warned. "Here! Pay attention!" he pointed to the ledger.

"Bah!" she actually blurted out.

* * *

"I can't control whether or not I will be accepted the way I am," Krem explained, looking especially glum, "but I can definitely control when she'll be given the choice to move forward or not."

"So she doesn't know yet?" Rocky asked.

"No. Not yet," Krem revealed, scratching his head.

"She is so ditzy she might not notice," Dalish grumbled to Skinner.

"Anyway…How does my business become everyone else's business?" he complained suddenly, resenting the small crowd of Chargers assembled around him at the tavern.

"You have a big mouth?" Stitches shrugged.

"Not big enough, apparently," Skinner whispered back to Dalish.

"So are you going to tell her?" Rocky asked.

"Since no one else has done the honors…I'm disappointed in the rumor mill at this place," Krem sulked. "That alone usually does all my romantic sorting for me."

* * *

It was with no small amount of delight that Almira saw her handsome lieutenant wander towards her at noonday. She sighed contentedly as she watched him offer her a warm grin from afar, admiring his fine armor, looking impeccable and at the ready.

"Back for my fine wares?" she asked him flirtatiously as he approached her.

"Only if covered under that appreciation program," he smiled devastatingly. "I was wondering if you'd like to have a drink with me later."

"And then?" she urged him on, biting her bottom lip.

"Maybe even a second drink. I'm generous like that," he smirked.

 _Scoundrel_ , she chuckled, crossing her arms.

Just then her father appeared, his arms hauling the last of their wares. She stared at him impatiently as was their established custom when Krem hurried to him and seized the parcels from the elf's arms.

"Let me help you," he offered.

Her father nodded, surprised to receive aid, and watched as Krem carried with ease what had caused him to bend forward from strain.

"Thank you," her father stated. He did not like to be beholden to anyone. Least of all to a Shem. But he had appreciated the gesture, she could tell.

"I came by to ask your daughter to accompany me for a drink," he explained to the man, to her further shock.

Her father turned to stare at his wild, unruly daughter. He appeared as if he were going to speak, but shook his head instead.

"Almira does as she pleases," he stated with resignation, before turning away.

They watched him walk off, Almira's heart beating rapidly. None of her conquests had as much as looked at her father before. It was strange and she did not know if she liked it.

"He is right, you know. I make my own decisions," she told him in no uncertain terms.

Krem averted his eyes from the tired form ambling ahead.

"I have no doubt. And I wasn't asking for permission. But your father cares for you and you are lucky to have him close by still."

She snorted. He examined her face with those shrewd eyes of his.

"You will not always have him. And when you don't, you will miss him."

She blinked at him. That was not the direction she expected or wanted their conversation to go in. She wanted more of what she'd glimpsed the previous night— that seduction, its familiar course, were more comforting to her. She preferred it when the men she fancied strove to bed her, give testimony to their desire for her, make her feel powerful. She thought she was starting to feel a little cross at this Krem; she didn't need to be lectured or chastised for simply conducting herself in the way she knew best.

"I have to get going," he told her, turning towards the staircase to the upper courtyard. "See you later?" he asked.

 _I don't know. Maybe I should ask my father,_  she wanted to respond. But a glimpse at those shoulders of his made her think that perhaps he was worth another try.

* * *

When Almira stepped through the door that evening, Krem couldn't help feeling a rush of affection for her. She wore a dress that had likely seen better days, but was probably her finest, he noticed, with the eyes of someone accustomed to discerning fine tailoring. Her hair had been arranged into a braid crown adorned with tiny flowers. Krem licked his lips nervously and hoped for the best.

He met her at the doorway and led her to the quieter second floor, seeking out one of the remote tables at a corner of the room. After they ordered their drinks, she examined him expectantly. They exchanged a few pleasantries, but he could sense her bewilderment, her slight impatience.

"Would you like to have dinner, too?" he asked, pondering the choices the tavern barmaid had rattled off to them moments before. "I could eat—I am usually starved after drills."

She pressed her lips together.

"I will… if you are dessert," she grinned coyly.

Krem laughed in earnest, but did not reply.

It irked her that he was being so elusive.

They had a couple drinks and she watched him eat a platter of meat and lick his fingers. She forlornly wished he were savoring her as contentedly.

They conversed throughout the dinner. They talked about the Chargers (too many names to remember) and a bit about Tevinter (she and her father had never gone that far north). She learned his father had been a tailor and she had told him that she had grown up trailing the roads in both Ferelden and the Free Marches, with her father supplying each region with rare reagents gathered from the other. She didn't mind talking to Krem, she liked how intently he listened, how attentive he was as she spoke, but it was odd. The conversation was…too normal. He said nothing about what he wanted to do to her later, or what he wanted her to do to him. There was no innuendo, no furtive touches under the table. Why didn't he simply do what she expected him to, what the others did, and be done with it? She wasn't accustomed to such treatment. It was strange, she decided.

He had been telling her something about a mission involving giant spiders when she was overcome with frustration and interrupted him.

"Do I not please you?" she asked at last.

He leaned back in his chair and contemplated her with an unguarded expression that made her catch her breath.

"Oh, you please me just fine," he insinuated.

"Do you not want me?" she wondered, leaning forward so that she could better display her shapely bosom. It had the desired effect, she noticed triumphantly. He did not reply, though, even as his eyes wandered over her lustily.

"Almira," he finally said, breaking the small hold she had trapped him in. "Before we go any further, there is something I should let you know about myself," he began.

She remained impassive. Maybe he was married. Maybe he had…unusual tastes in the bedroom?

"Have you ever heard the term 'Aqun-Athlok'?" he asked.

* * *

Almira's head reeled.

As far as she could tell, he was all man—from the way he wore his hair to his strong features. Was it a cruel joke? Something he was saying to extricate himself from being further involved with her? She sought and sought for evidence, but could not discern anything that indicated what he had revealed to her: that he was a man in a woman's body. As she contemplated his fine features, she did recall finding his face very smooth, devoid of bristle and whisker.

He observed her as well, expectantly.

"You can ask me anything you want," he told her sincerely.

"I don't know, Krem," she finally issued an answer. "I don't know what to make of all this."

It was the truth.

"What are your concerns?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

"I don't see how we could…" her voice trailed off. "You know."

"Just because I don't have certain…physical attributes…doesn't mean I am lacking in any way. If you're worried about that, let me reassure you: don't worry. I know how to take good care of you…" he explained suggestively.

"But what…what if we ever wanted to have a child?" she reasoned.

He appeared to blanch a bit and raised his hands rapidly.

"Whoa, Almira!"

She remained crestfallen.

"First, we've just met! Second, I'm a mercenary soldier. That's not a profession that lends itself to domesticity. Third, if such a thing ever crossed my mind—and I'll be blunt with you: it hasn't— there are myriad children left parentless out there to adopt," he declared.

"But why aren't you more like those women who like other women?" Almira complained.

Why had he misled her?

"Because I am not a woman," he stated curtly.

"But you have the body of a—"

"Imagine this," he continued, patiently. "Imagine yourself as you are—Almira…dressed in your fine dress there," he said, with a nod. "Do you have any doubt of who you are right now? Anything other than a young elf, a woman?"

She shook her head.

"So," he went on, leaning forward, "when you glance in a mirror, does what you see match how you think of yourself?"

"I guess," she shrugged.

"And what if one day you looked in the mirror, but you saw something else? Not the Almira you know, but perhaps the image of a young man," he asked.

"Witchcraft…I'd imagine I'd been cursed," she reasoned.

He tilted his head and turned up both of his palms.

"Welcome to my life—for as long as I can remember. I didn't decide I wanted to be a man: I always knew I was a man. It's that simple."

Almira frowned.

"You are from Tevinter. Why didn't you just have a mage change—"

"Because I do not need to, you see. This is who I am. Take it or leave it," he said, with a hint of defiance."

"I need to think about this," Almira confessed, an expression of confusion on her face.

"That's fine. I understand," Krem told her, reaching out to pat her arm kindly.

He noticed she recoiled slightly at his touch. He pushed his chair away from the table roughly. He resented it, especially in light of the fact she hadn't been able to keep her hands off him just the previous night. He was still the same person, he gathered, smarting from the slight. But it hadn't been the first time and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. Any limitations on her part were simply that: limitations. And her problem, actually.

"I should get you back home," he offered politely.

"I can see myself back," she said sadly.

"Listen—" He loomed over her. "No hard feelings. That's why we had this chat, right? So there would be no unpleasant surprises or moments. At the end of it all, you have to be true to yourself," he winked. "But let me at least see you out. Lots of drunken folks down there displaying very poor judgment."

She nodded before dazedly making her way down the steps to the lower level of the tavern, where a fire crackled in the large hearth and despite the propped door, the air felt stuffy and damp around them. She edged past the crowd, bumping into people and avoiding tankards, sensing Krem close behind her.

"Krem!" someone yelled over the din. "Are you leaving?"

"No," he called out. "I'll be right back."

She stopped before a hulking shape blocking her way to the door.

"Excuse me," she tapped the wide back before her.

A mildly surprised face turned to examine her, drunken and watery-eyed.

"Well, what have we here!" the man slurred, peering down at her lewdly.

"Just push on through," Krem muttered behind her. "He's drunker than an Orlesian sommelier."

Almira turned her shoulder and began to push past him. Before she realized what was happening, she felt herself being pulled against the robust man.

"Let me go!" she protested.

"Not even a little kiss?" the man teased. "But you're wearing such a pretty dress…"

She began to struggle against his viselike hold when she saw an armored figure rapidly step up beside her, seize the man by the collar and slam him hard against the tavern wall. Almira stood aside in disbelief as the noise in the tavern died down to a tense silence.

"She said to let her go," Krem said ominously.

"And who the fuck are you?" the man spat angrily, shoving him away. Krem staggered back. The man's face glowered with recognition.

"Oh, it is you. That dickless bastard who thinks she's a—"

The man didn't finish his sentence. Krem cocked his arm back and rammed his fist into his bloated face. Blood began to ooze from the man's busted lip.

"I'd rather you just think of me as a regular guy, but I admit it gives me some pleasure to think how much you'll hate having to live the rest of your sorry life thinking you had your ass handed to you by a girl," Krem said with a savage sneer, his eyes ablaze.

It was as if his words had signaled the start of the brawl. Behind them, members of the Chargers held off the brute's companions from intervening. She peered towards the exit and glanced back at Krem, unsure of how to proceed.

"Go," he mouthed to her, before the man attempted to wrap his hands around his neck. The last thing she saw as she escaped was Krem freeing himself by violently banging his head into the man's nose.

She fled and made her way down a dark staircase just as a patrol passed her, racing towards the tumultuous tavern.

"Blasted tavern scuffles," one guard huffed hurriedly to another. "Feels like we break one up every night…"

She quickly found her tent out in the courtyard, and found, relieved, that her father was still awake, his lamp still glowing as he entered several receipts into his ledger. He mumbled at her, as she crawled towards her pallet.

"What?" she barked, wild-eyed.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, not looking up. "Were you out with the Shem?" he asked, uncharacteristically so.

"Yes," she replied, also uncharacteristically.

He clucked at her.

"I rather liked him."

She remained awake into the wee hours of the night, remembering the things Krem had told her, thinking about what he had revealed to her, what it meant, imagining what it could have been like if she hadn't rebuffed him, and staying with those thoughts, which only piqued her curiosity. She recalled his arm, so strong, shooting out so powerfully when he struck the drunk. He'd protected her. Defended her. He'd invited her to dinner, sought her company beyond the confines of a bed, wanted to know more about her and acknowledged her father.

No, she wasn't used to being treated like that.

With respect.

Kindness.

 _No hard feelings_ , she remembered the roguish grin spreading over his face. A _t the end of it all, you have to be true to yourself,_ he'd said.

 _Be true to yourself_ , the words echoed in her mind.

 _What does that mean to me?_  she wondered, bothered, tossing around sleeplessly.


	34. What the Eyes Can't See (Part IV)

"The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing."  
― Oscar Wilde

* * *

The jail's door swung open and Bull marched in imposingly. Krem and the others appeared to revive, shifting on the bunks, the ground, wherever else they had managed a place to alight on in the small cell since being herded in by the Skyhold guard after the previous night's brawl.

Bull crossed his arms and took inventory of his company with his good eye. They peered back at him, the silence expectant between them.

"I'm gone one night," Bull finally said in a tone of censure, pointing accusingly at them. "One night that I leave you all to it… and what do you all do? You start the brawl that put all other brawls in Skyhold to shame!" he bellowed.

Grim stared down at the ground, as if ashamed, and grunted contritely.

Krem's eyes narrowed defiantly.

"What? Just like that? You're not even going to ask what happened before—"

"I can't believe I missed it!" Bull interrupted, a slightly crazed grin across his face. "Five broken chairs, two smashed windows, one shattered lute—whoever did that: genius!— and four assholes from that shitty mercenary company in the infirmary, three others sitting in the lower jails." He nodded, impressed. "Well done, Chargers! You've done me proud. You are the talk of the fortress!"

Krem grinned smugly. His shoulders ached from where a chair had flown down squarely over his back, but it had been worth it.

"So here is the deal: Commander Cullen said I had to talk some sense into you delinquents, so let's all pretend we had a heart to heart, a 'Come to Andraste' moment, and we can all hurry out of here and still make it to breakfast at the mess hall," Bull explained cheerfully, rubbing his hands.

They slowly rose, among mild cheers, shaking the stiffness from their limbs.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," he added, rubbing his chin. "One last detail, lads: the Chargers have been banned from the Tavern for the next month."

A collective groan of protest erupted from the cell.

Bull raised both palms at them.

"You can still have your drinks— just not at the tavern," he explained. "It was the compromise offered and I took it. No big loss— the place is wrecked anyway and you are all going off on a mission soon. By the time you return, it'll be nice and new again."

"I don't like the food at the mess hall," Stitches grumbled.

"What's that?" Bull raised an eyebrow. "You are welcome to cook for us all, if you'd prefer."

"I said I didn't like it. Doesn't mean I won't eat it," Stitches said grudgingly.

The jailor arrived shortly after with a jangling set of keys and unlocked the iron door, watching the Chargers file out morosely, one by one.

"Krem!" Bull called commandingly as his lieutenant emerged from the cell.

"Chief," he replied, falling back and letting the others step out before him.

As the last of the other Chargers disappeared beyond the prison door and the jailor turned on his heels tiredly, Bull leaned towards him.

"Listen: Commander Cullen spoke to some witnesses. Said quite a few people testified another guy started it all. He said given the nature of the exchange, you could press charges if you wanted."

Krem grinned.

"No shit!" he marveled, pleased.

"Pretty nice, huh?"

Krem peered at the polished stone floor with spreading satisfaction.

"Nah," he finally decided. "I don't want to press any charges."

Bull smirked.

"I figured you wouldn't. Why press charges when you can smash faces instead?…" he teased.

"Exactly," Krem smiled broadly, making his way to the exit. "Faster… and far more satisfying."

* * *

"Almira!" Her father startled her from her trancelike state. "It's all burned!" he gesticulated frustratedly at the scorched eggs in the pan.

She swiftly shifted the pan away from the fire and evaluated the damage.

"I wanted a simple fried egg," her father mourned.

She scraped at the carbonized remains of the eggs, an expression of worry furrowing her brow.

"Are you unwell?" her father wondered after she said nothing.

She continued her feeble attempts to dislodge the burnt breakfast fare.

"Did anything happen,  _venan_?" he contemplated her with unusual tenderness.

"Nothing," she replied unconvincingly.

"Why don't you take a break?" he suggested, wiping his hands over his work apron, his pencil firmly planted behind his ear. "Go for a little walk and come back around late morning to relieve me."

Her hands pulled nervously at the hem of her tunic, unsure.

In the nearby distance, the faint clatter of metal resounded over the courtyard.

"They're at practice already!" a young dark-haired man leaning over the stairwell's parapet yelled down to a small party of stable boys. "They spent the entire night in prison, but it doesn't stop them from performing their duties!" he continued with undisguised admiration.

"Ooh! I want to see!" one of the lad's companions exclaimed, bounding up the steps to join him.

"Hurry—there's quite the crowd assembled to watch them. We'll either run out of room or the guard will make us all disperse," he signaled, turning around again.

"You still hoping, Loïc?" another voice called out playfully.

"What? Me? I  _wish_! The Chargers are in a league of their own," the young man said hurriedly.

Almira calculatingly watched them disappear up the steps.

"Baba," she said to her father, evoking the old term of endearment she hadn't used in a long time, "I'll be back soon."

 _But not too soon_ , she hoped, holding her skirt up slightly so she could trudge up the steps.


	35. What the Eyes Can't See (Part V)

"Courage is not having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don't have the strength."  
― Theodore Roosevelt

* * *

Krem raked his fingers through his sweat drenched hair, reaching for the almost-emptied canteen discarded at the side of the practice grounds for a draught of tepid water. His shoulders now hurt in earnest as he exerted himself and he knew he would have to sit out on the drills later in the day and pester the mages in the dispensary to conjure him up some fresh ice to ease the pain.

But he would be damned if he was going to give away anything short of himself at his best that morning after almost the entire fortress had shown up to watch the Chargers in action.

Not all eyes would be adoring, he knew; a display of weakness would be a great setback, especially for him, after the previous night. Besides, he not-so-secretly relished the gaping looks of admiration and awe on the spectators' faces. He had a reputation to uphold, he reasoned.

A robust green-eyed, honey-blonde in the crowd had not unpeeled her gaze from him. He'd seen her several times before always seeking him out during practices, he realized, suddenly flattered.

He licked the perspiration beads off his upper lip before tipping the canteen back, holding her eyes in his. She coyly lowered them as she grinned.

 _A reputation, indeed!_  he chuckled.

* * *

Almira placed herself strategically among the small band of stable boys that was held in thrall by the armored bodies crashing, lunging, and grappling with each other. The Chargers were easily identifiable thanks to their lack of uniform, unlike the Inquisition's new recruits, quavering in their standard-issue boots.

"Forget any formal fighting rules you learned back home. In combat there is no patrician right-of-way: you go for any advantage you can get your hands on," the officer handling the training explained loudly. "You will now free spar…Break your opponent's hold, or you will understand the expression 'having the wind knocked out' of you." He wandered along the observant row of recruits as they heaved heavy breaths during the grueling practice. "Fair warning: the Chargers will not go easy on you, Inquisition!"

He ran down the line one final time dispensing hasty last-minute advice to his nervous soldiers, pointing at a drooping shield arm, uneven stance, favored leg, or loosened armor strap. Almira noticed the Chargers observed everything with cool indifference, standing aside with studied casualness. She watched Krem swoop down gracefully to deposit his canteen on the ground before returning to take his position in front of his company.

"Inquisition forces, are you ready?" the Inquisition's officer shouted out hoarsely, rallying his terror-stricken soldiers.

The crowd fell silent, mesmerized as the small group of recruits all cried out affirmatively in unison.

The Chargers glanced about, obvious amusement in their faces as they gripped their wooden wasters and worn, cracked shields. The band waited until their Lieutenant had sauntered to the front and with a quick crick of his neck to the right, sized up their opponents with an entertained expression.

"Chargers!" he called out firmly in his low voice, slipping into a combative stance. "Horns up!"

She doubted she was the only one to feel the goosebumps prickle her skin at the warlike whooping cries they let out as they descended upon the hapless Inquisition recruits.

* * *

"Good fight," Almira heard, again and again, uttered with either begrudging respect or fatigue. She had enjoyed watching the Chargers engage the soldiers.

"What makes them so tricky is that it's not like going up against an army," her knowledgeable stable boys discussed nearby, as the crowd slowly dispersed.

"Every army has a certain style of combat," one of the lads explained authoritatively. "But the Chargers are pretty much all unique fighters. So, if you train to disarm a man off his mount, as you might if you expected to go up against a chevalier, you might be able to to pick off one of the Chargers…But you'll find yourself facing someone with completely unexpected abilities next."

He pointed out a dark haired elven woman making her way off the training grounds.

"See her? Duelist. Hand-to-hand combat. She held her waster like a rondel. She goes for speed and precision, not endurance. Go after her with a broadsword and she will close in on any openings you foolishly make," he said excitedly.

Almira stared straight ahead, feigning distraction, but eavesdropped attentively.

"And that other elf," he indicated a blond elf with bright green vallaslin on her pale skin standing close to where they all stood, her back turned to them, "you approach her thinking—Oh, close my distance between the archer and myself to create a dead zone— but guess what? Look again— she was wielding her waster like a mage's staff and striking with it as deftly."

The others stared and nodded until the elf turned her head, peeved, and pointed warningly at the group.

"It was supposed to be a BOW," she complained. "I'd look like a cretin pretending to shoot fake arrows now, wouldn't I?"

"And if she ever tells you I am a giant, just agree with her. Because a strike from her real…bow…hurts," a dark-haired dwarf quipped jovially as he handed his equipment to one of the quartermaster's assistants.

The young men laughed nervously, giddy from being singled out and spoken to by one of the mighty Chargers.

* * *

"What did you think?" Bull asked the Inquisition officer as they surveyed the quickly emptying training grounds.

"It was a good first rude awakening," the officer admitted. "Should curb all the bragging for a little while, at least."

"Think they'll be ready for me next time?" Bull winked.

"I wish to break them in a bit, not frighten them witless."

"Maybe in two practices or so?…" Bull asked hopefully.

"Maybe never," the officer huffed, shaking his head.

"It's really not fair," Bull sulked to the remaining Chargers. "You get to have all the fun."

Almira's eyes sought out Krem, who was standing aside, speaking in hushed tones to Stitches. She saw he had grimaced as he removed part of his armor. She had also perceived that he appeared to be having some difficulty with his left arm. He kept rolling the shoulder, as if to loosen it up, and shaking his arm. Now that she saw it, she recalled that during practice he had held his shield rather low. She'd thought perhaps that he'd meant it to lure his opponents, but she could read the discomfort in his gait.

He was in pain.

She had seen enough of the wounded— from wars, accidents, and age—hobble to her father seeking his help with poultices and ointments and analgesic concoctions to realize as much.

He began to wander away, in the opposite direction she stood in, oblivious to his admirers, focusing on moving slowly through the crowd.

She resisted the urge to dash to him—she had planned originally on greeting him and thanking him for the previous night— and instead turned back to the stairwell expeditiously.

She had hatched a new plan. And this one was going to be good and make it all better. She just knew it.

* * *

There was nothing to do except let it heal.

The bruise bloomed angrily beneath Krem's skin in garish red and plum tones across his upper back. He'd stared at the bloody swirl earlier that morning as he examined himself before the mirror in his small room. He exhaled frustratedly and sat on the edge of his bed, too tired and uncomfortable to attempt peeling off the sweat soaked undershirt he had worn beneath his armor. He needed to wash up, dress up again, and head over to the dispensary. Stitches had looked at it the previous night.

"It's a strain, my friend," Stitches concluded, palpating his shoulder blades, "The ligaments—"

"How long?" Krem interrupted.

"Put pressure and ice for the next two days…and then get moving again. If you don't, it'll get worse."

He hadn't waited even a day.

Somehow, he had the sense he wasn't making it better.

* * *

"I need you to check the ledger and tell me how much I've earned so far," she ordered her father eagerly.

"I'm on my lunch break," he retorted crossly, peering at her from behind his spectacles as he chewed slowly and flipped through his notebook.

"Hurry up! Eat!" she urged him impatiently.

"What do you need money for?" he asked suspiciously, never averting his eyes from the page before him.

"I need to buy something."

"You didn't earn that much," he revealed.

"What do you mean?"

"I had to compensate for all the transactions you ruined and shifts you did not complete…as usual," he said emphatically.

She curbed the impulse to erupt in a fury of fist shaking and expletive-filled rant and instead sat herself down quietly for a few moments.

"Just how much?" she started up again after he took a few mouthfuls of his meal.

"Hmmm…?" he asked.

"Money! You need to pay me!" she cried out.

"Let me see…" he said, with infuriatingly deliberate turpitude. "Three silver…one…two copper," he decided, considering the small haul in his hand after fishing through his pocket.

 _No_ , she knew.

He owed her much more. He was merely appeasing her with whatever he had in his pocket. She took the coins and jingled them in her palm pensively as the old man stared at her.

"Will it be enough?" she wondered aloud.

"How should I know? What on the good earth for?" he said with exasperation.

"I want to buy the herbs that you use to make the ointment you make whenever someone asks for something to cure muscle pain," she revealed, extending the coins back to him.

"Well, I…" his voice trailed off as he contemplated her. "Did you hurt yourself?" he asked incredulously.

"No, Baba! It's for someone else!" She shook the coins beneath his nose. "Is it enough?"

"Is it for the Shem?…" he tried to seem disinterested.

"Can you do it?" she persisted, ignoring his nosey question. "The one that feels nice and cool and tingly against the skin?"

He sighed deeply.

"I can," he admitted, dabbing at his mouth with a dishtowel.

She kept shaking the coins at him victoriously until he whisked them off her palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I was a kid, I loved reading Asterix and Obelix. When I was re-reading Bull's eagerness over getting a chance to smack down some new recruits and getting all sulky when denied, I thought: Who else wears ridiculously striped pantaloons, looks forward to slapping some Romans around and gets cranky when denied super-strength magic potion?
> 
> Ready?
> 
> Bull= Obelix.
> 
> You heard it first here.
> 
> Yup.
> 
> Oh, and we are officially over the halfway mark to 69 chapters! Thanks for pointing that out, JaneBeyre! *Confetti everywhere!*
> 
> Thank you for being such fine, distinguishing, and discerning readers! You keep me going!


	36. What the Eyes Can't See (Part VI)

36: What the Eyes Can't See (Part VI)

“Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”   
―  Henry James

* * *

 

The light knock startled Krem from the uneasy slumber he had sunken into. He realized he'd only been asleep for a little while, still in his leg armor and damp shirt.

 _I don't want to move_ , he grimaced.

"Who is it?" he barked.

"It's Almira."

_Of all the sodding possibilities, her timing couldn't have been more immaculately inopportune._

He winced in disbelief.

"What do you want?" he asked more curtly than intended.

"For you to open the door!" she stated indignantly after a short pause.

He cursed beneath his breath, heaving himself off the bed, haltingly moving towards the door. He flicked the latch up and turned around towards the bed again all in one fluid motion. He heard her slip into the room and shut the door gently behind her.

"Look, whatever it is, do you think it can wait? I am not in the best state right now—"

She extended her arms towards him: in one hand sat a small pot with a large lump of what looked like lard, and in another a roll of gauze.

"I can help!" she said enthusiastically.

Krem fell back onto the side of the bed, rubbing his face.

"Where did you get that?—Better: what is that?"

"My father's own recipe. People say it is the best."

He looked at the greasy, glistening ointment.

"Thank you. I appreciate it," he said more affably. "You can leave it on the chair near the door."

Almira's smile vanished.

"No," she shook her head. "You should put it on right away—it'll dull the pain, you'll see! Baba's recipe—"

"Almira," Krem said warningly, "thank you. I appreciate it. Now you can leave."

"I'll rub it on your back for you!" she insisted, shaking the roll of gauze at him.

Krem pressed his lips together and raised an eyebrow.  _Was it curiosity?_  Because that's how some women approached him—as an exciting novelty. Sometimes he didn't care—he was horny enough and at the end of the day, everyone parted ways having gotten what they wanted.  _Was it guilt?_  he wondered. He and the Chargers had brought down a whole tavern and she had sparked the events into motion. Maybe she felt bad for him and she was offering herself up in gratitude? Maybe it was the only currency she thought she had to offer? That scenario, given how she had recoiled at his touch the previous night, filled him with revulsion.

"Why are you doing this? You don't have to," he said sternly. "I'll be fine. I've been worse," he said meaningfully. "Much worse."

Almira appeared taken aback.

"I just wanted to thank you," she finally admitted. "I saw you were in pain and I thought—"

"You owe me nothing. I would have done the same for anyone," he tried to explain.

At the 'anyone' she seemed disconcerted, he saw.

 _Maybe not the most elegant choice of words, but I don't really care right now_ , he thought, clenching his jaw at the strong bolt of pain seizing his back.

"Please," she insisted.

"Almira…"

"You were so nice to me. People usually don't…It made me think and I was wondering if the two of us could try…" she began.

Krem frowned and began to speak up to stop her, but she spoke faster.

"…And be friends," she blurted out.

 _Friends_? he thought incredulously, staring at her long red braided hair and her bright inquisitive eyes examining him.

_That was…unexpected._

He laughed with a mix of relief and amusement. She smiled, unsure of what she was smiling about.

"Friends, eh?" Krem asked, pondering the word. She nodded her head enthusiastically.

"Ok,  _friend_ ," he said pointedly. "If you insist in making yourself useful, then help me get this shirt off, and then smear some of that stuff on my back. But I warn you—it doesn't look pretty back there."

She nodded gravely.

"I once saw charred corpses along the road where a rift had been and I did not even flinch," she said bravely. "I can handle it."

He laughed heartily at that.

"Come on then, friend," he encouraged her, lifting his arms up so she could help him with the shirt.

* * *

"Almira!" her father waved, walking towards their stall.

She looked up lazily, her elbows splayed over the tray, as she rested her chin over her fists, a bored expression on her face.

He halted before her and placed his hands on his hips.

"We are dismantling the stall," he ordered loudly.

Even Belle turned to stare, surprised.

Almira could barely contain her shock.

"But-but…we are hardly sold out! What happened?" she cried. "Are we going back on the road already?"

Her father leaned over and dragged an armful of bottles and phials and sachets off the display tray. He walked to their cart and dumped everything unceremoniously in the back. She stumbled after him, worry surfacing in her eyes.

Something had happened to make him uproot them so suddenly. Something big. Possibly very bad.

"Baba," she whispered apprehensively, a familiar dread overcoming her at the thought of the open road awaiting them.

"No more!" he cried. "No more stall, no more herb picking! No more crawling through bug-infested swamps for tender buds and shoots!" he declared, his finger pointing mightily towards the sky. "It's over,  _venan_! Our days of wandering are finally behind us!"

Something was unfurling before her eyes and she was not grasping it. Shouldn't he be livid? He did not seem upset. He seemed…delighted. Even…happy?

"What?" she muttered, incredulously.

"I have been offered a position with the Inquisition, and I am taking it!" he announced proudly.

Almira clasped her hands together, speechless.

"I couldn't believe it myself! Good fortune smiled upon me at last, when the Inquisition's Head Apothecary came to me when the infirmary ran out of Felandaris. He said he was using it to fight a patient's infection and then I told him to use Prophet's Laurel instead—and he said, 'But that's weaker,' and I said, 'Not if you use buds and seeds,' and I showed him—the same recipe my mother showed me, and her mother before that…And wouldn't you know, he came back this morning saying it worked better than anything he'd ever seen, and we got to talking—and," he stopped, out of breath. "I am now going to assist him compounding herbs at the Infirmary," he said proudly.

She couldn't believe it.

"We sleep in the tent tonight still, but tomorrow—or the day after tomorrow, at the latest, we move to our own quarters—"

"Our own quarters!" Almira relished the words they escaped her lips. A real roof. A proper bed. No more tent.

"You'll have to find work, but he told me the kitchen and the tavern are often hiring."

She began to cheer with joy, tears flooding her eyes. Her father chuckled, too, and they clasped each other, jumping up down the courtyard with glee, laughing loudly, shouting out praises to the Inquisition.

"Baba!" she said abruptly, after they had caused a small commotion with their rowdy celebration. "I need to go! I'll be back later on!"

"Where are you going?"

"I need to tell someone the good news!"

"Who?" he asked, puzzled.

"A friend," she said, slipping away.

* * *

Krem and Almira shared the flask of whiskey as they sat side by side on the parapet overlooking the main courtyard, their legs dangling freely over the low drop. The breeze was mild that afternoon and the sun was beginning to set, tinging the mountain peaks with warm oranges and blazing reds.

"I've never lived anywhere long enough to call home," she said, still buoyed by her excitement. "Or had a bed that wasn't a pallet—even when we lodged at inns, because we could never afford the decent ones, and I wouldn't be caught dead sleeping in the beds at one of those cheap ones--they're crawling with Maker-knows-what…Actually if I were dead, it wouldn't matter…"

Krem snorted lightly. She had been babbling madly since she'd burst into his room to share her news.

"Actually, we did live in a small village in the Bannorn, in Ferelden: Greenfells. We wintered there for a few years when I was younger—ever hear of it?" She didn't wait for his response. "But I hated it: the villagers treated us as if we carried the plague because we were elves. The local girls didn't like me because they thought I would steal their sweethearts, and the boys just wanted to bed me."

Krem cast her a sideways glance.

"Would you and did you?"

"Yes," she admitted, sheepishly. "I was bored."

He snickered, taking a swig from the flask.

"You and I have a lot in common, don't we?" she asked, scanning the mountain tops bathed in glorious light.

Krem turned to look at her curiously.

"People look at us as if we don't belong. And people judge us, and sometimes don't accept us because we are the way we are," she turned to face him. "And another thing: we've both lived on the road, never staying anywhere long enough to make or keep friends."

He nodded his head in agreement.

"We've led hard lives, often witnessing the worst in people, filled with peril," she concluded seriously.

"You are comparing the life of a Charger to that of an herb picker?" he teased gently, attempting to lighten the mood.

"No!" she quickly amended.

She stared straight ahead. "The life of an herb picker is more fraught with danger," she declared.

He almost choked on his whiskey.

"Some herbs only grow on cliffs, you know," she explained, clearly mocking him. "Some will only bloom if gobbed in bird shit on a craggy ravine. It takes a special kind of person to perform such a truly useful service," she told him with self-importance. "And what do you do? You only swing that big maul around— if you are lucky, you hit something."

"All right. Now you've done it!" he declared, feigning indignation.

She felt his strong hands seize her by the arms as he pretended to push her off the parapet. She screamed with laughter, clinging to him, a rush of fear and excitement washing over her, even as she knew, from his firm grip, that he would not let her go, would not let her fall.

He noticed, relieved, that she had not cringed at his touch this time.

Perhaps, he thought, they could be friends, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There's more to these two. Much more to tell about their connection. But I'm worried about staying too long on one story arc. So I leave it up to you, my lovely readers whose support has never been taken for granted: Go on with these two now...or focus on a different story and return to them later? Let me know what you'd like! And as always: thank you!


	37. What the Eyes Can't See (Part VII)

"We are all in the same boat, in a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty."  
― G.K. Chesterton

* * *

A/N: Trigger warning for harassment in the form of verbal intolerance and discrimination.

* * *

"Won't you come for dinner tomorrow? Baba is cooking a traditional Dalish dinner and inviting some of the other vendors before we move," Almira asked Krem later on, as they meandered back to her tent.

Krem hesitated, peering down at the cobblestones.

"Ah," he began, scratching his head. "I would, but I already have plans…" he said awkwardly.

"What could be more important?" she ribbed him.

"It's not that," he protested. "I promised…someone I'd go somewhere…" he said evasively.

"I see…" she said, not duped at all. "Someone and somewhere…Sounds like a good time."

He grinned wanly.

"Maybe."

Her eyes widened.

"What? You didn't want to tell me? You can tell me, you know!" she said frankly. "Did you think I would throw a fit and be all jealous?"

He smirked and shrugged.

"I guess this is all new to me, too."

"Weeeeell…"Almira scratched her chin. "You did ruin me for all others," she confessed.

Krem looked up at her in alarm.

"Now I expect a man to offer me drinks, dinner, and then destroy a tavern…" she teased.

He laughed again. Maker, she could make him laugh.

"Enjoy!" she waved him off after he saw her to her tent. "I'll write to you while you are away on your mission!" she told him.

He stepped away from her that evening with a smile on his face.

"The most fun I've ever had with any woman who ever rejected me!" he'd joked later on with Rocky.

* * *

"Lucky lady," she whispered to herself long after he'd left.

She was happy for him and she meant it.

She told herself so, even as she chased the memory of how closely he'd held her against him, his hand caressing the nape of her neck slowly as they kissed in the dark.

She shook her head vehemently.

"Lucky, lucky lady…"

She heard her father's voice from inside the tent.

"What's that?"

"I was wondering what was for dinner," she lifted the tent flap and peeked in.

Her father was lying on his pallet, gazing back at her sleepily.

"Ah,  _venan_ …I lost track of time…Fell asleep…Nothing is ready yet."

"Oh no? And you are going to cook up a feast for the entire courtyard when you can't produce a decent dinner for your only child?" she cried out. "Dalish dinner  _my ass_!"

But her tone was lighthearted.

Nothing could bring her down. Her days of errant wandering were over.

She finally had a home.

And a new friend.

* * *

The Inquisition's supplies arrived at the away camp at dawn and the Chargers helped the soldiers unload them. Bull waited for Scout Harding to riffle through the courier pouch for any instructions.

"Nope. Nothing for you today…Just a few letters," she noted, turning an envelope sideways. "Oh, wait. There is something here for one of your men," she stated, waving an envelope beneath her nose. "Perfumed, too!"

She glanced down at the writing upon it and began to chuckle. Bull had to pry the letter from her gloved hand.

One look at the letter revealed why.

"Oh, this is rich!" Bull interjected. He looked up and located his crew, standing near the heap of supplies. "To Lieutenant Cremiscius Aclassi," he called out with exaggerated solicitousness. "Spelled out very creatively," he added. Krem turned to Bull. "To Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, Second-in-Command to The Chargers, Brave Warrior and Conqueror— spelled with a 'k'—of Beautiful Women, with Great Respect and Lust from His Secret Admirer. Warning: the contents of this letter are explicit and intended to be shoved down the Lieutenant's pants only."

Krem quickly seized the envelope out of Bull's hands beneath a volley of ribald laughter.

 _Almira!_  he thought, amused and annoyed at once.

He was going to get her back, he grinned mischievously, eagerly tearing the envelope open.

* * *

"To Almira Elanan, Exiled Princess of the Dales and Her Majestically Bouncing Twins, Her Most Noble and Generous Contribution to Thedas' Landscape, from Her Loyal Retainer, a Missive to Keep Her Highness 'Abreast' of Affairs," the postmaster, a blue-eyed dwarf, announced in an even voice as he retrieved her letter from his sorted rows of correspondence in Skyhold's mail room.

Behind her a few guffaws and chuckles broke out.

"Oh, that's so terrible!" she cackled. "But honestly, I think mine was better, don't you all think?" she addressed the small crowd lined up behind her.

"Undoubtedly," the dwarf sighed, trying to catch the eye of the next customer in line.

Almira grabbed the envelope excitedly, hurrying off to read the message.

* * *

Almira spent her mornings and afternoons scraping pots of dried or baked on food in Skyhold's kitchen, her hands raw from the warm soapy water and coarse scrubbers. Sometimes, as she wrestled with particularly tough, burnt gobs, her nails caked with grime, conversation subdued among her coworkers, she missed the freedom of the road, the hours of simply sitting back and enjoying the views of fields and towns passing them by during their travels. Running the stall had never been that much work.

She had wondered if she would grow bored of remaining in the same place—and sometimes she did—but she liked claiming familiarity with the fortress, the reassuring shelter of her room, the guarantee of daily meals, and the small rituals she had embraced: drinks at the tavern with her fellow maids, dinner with her father on the nights he didn't work, and trudging back to her room after a long day, seizing the handle of her wash bucket, a fresh cloth, a brick of soap inside, and going off for a lengthy soak in the bath house. Her favorite, though, was whenever the Chargers returned from wherever they'd been sent. One of the first things Krem would do, if they had arrived early enough, and once he had overseen the unpacking of their equipment and weaponry and properly submitted his reports to the appropriate channels, was to saunter down to the kitchen, where he was feted by the kitchen staff, where the Head Cook would slip him a small dish of whatever delicacy she was preparing for the Ambassador's frequent diplomatic dinners, soirees, and meetings. He would sit on the edge of one of the tables closest to Almira's marble wash sink and regale them with the stories of his latest adventures. The maids would laugh and flirt, snap their dishtowels at him as he made comical innuendo, but no matter how often his attention was diverted, it always returned to Almira. Sometimes he waited for her to end her shift and other times he would tousle her hair and plan to meet up with her later.

"Look: there goes Kremira!" the assistant head cook cried out one afternoon as the two began to leave the kitchen at the end of her shift. "Those two are joined at the hip bone!" the man joked.

Krem and Almira exchanged amused glances and burst out laughing before jaunting up the stairwell together.

One day, a delegate from Ferelden brought her own cook to Skyhold.

"Her excellency has a delicate stomach," the cook explained haughtily. "She has much important business to attend to and cannot be expected to manage any dietary concerns on top of all else. I am here to ensure her meals are no different than the fare she consumes at home. I'd appreciate it if my workspace were dedicated to my Lady's needs alone," she declared, clearing the Head Cook's worktable.

Almira rolled her eyes and tackled the previous night's baking pans with renewed vigor.

When Krem stopped by, stealing an apple from around the pantry boy's shoulder, he brought their beleaguered group a much needed dose of levity and cheer. On top of their usual load, the Ambassador had requested they use new, imported china at the banquet that night, and the many dishes had arrived tightly packed in dusty crates. Stack after stack of plates of different sizes, for the various required courses of the banquet, needed to be properly washed, dried, and set upstairs on the tables at the Main Hall. She and her fellow scullery maids, all summoned to lend their hands that afternoon, remained painfully hunched over the gradually greying tubs of water.

He made them giggle, helped move stacks of plates around, and eventually stepped out of the way to savor his apple, all under the scrutinizing eyes of the Fereldan cook, who had demonstrated interest in him since the first day she had arrived.

"I say, keep it simple," Krem explained, talking about how an Orlesian representative had taken a nasty spill out of his carriage after getting tangled in his flowing cape that morning.

"You should know, you always look dapper, don't you, Lieutenant?…" one of the maids chopping frilled cabbage for garnishing saucily stated.

"Yeah," another maid quipped, looking up from her ball of kneaded dough as she wiped her forehead with her arm. "All the lads should take a cue from you. You always look proper, even when just in your tunic and trousers," the woman said approvingly.

The Fereldan cook had been observing everything in silence until then. Diverting her gaze firmly to Krem, she began speaking in a cloying tone.

"It is so ironic, isn't it? That our Lieutenant here should be considered an example to our men; yet, she isn't even one."

Silence fell over the kitchen. Only the sound of the bubbling pots boiling on the stove manifested themselves. The cook glanced around the room, trying to determine the effect of her revelation.

Krem shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," he stated. "Believe what you want."

The cook appeared a bit deflated when she noticed all the censuring stares had been directed at her, not at him, as she had hoped.

"Such a thing is not right," she continued. "You are a woman, you shouldn't go around pretending to be—"

The clatter of a stack of plates landing heavily on the floor resounded behind them. Wiping her hands over her apron, Almira jutted her chin at the woman belligerently.

"And who are you to come here and tell us what is and isn't?"

"What? Am I lying?" the woman asked insolently.

Krem smirked.

"Just ignore her," he advised in an appeasing tone. "I know I am."

"Krem is a good man," Almira said angrily.

"Her body says otherwise" the woman crossed her arms.

"His mind and his heart know the truth!" Almira stated, pointing to her head and then her chest.

"Her body says otherwise," the woman repeated in a sing-song way, lewdly pointing at her crotch.

Almira couldn't articulate her anger. She didn't have the words to explain the feelings that emerged when she thought of Krem. She felt him place his hand firmly on her shoulder. Someone else—one of the pantry boys—had scurried off in search of the Head Cook before things escalated further.

"Stop referring to him as 'her,'" Almira growled.

"Why? Just because she wants to pretend to be a boy, I have to play along too?" she mocked, her eyes wide.

Around them mild protests erupted, urging calm, calling for them to stop.

"If that is the case," the cook said sassily, "Then I want to be the Empress of Orlais!" she declared, tossing her head back glamorously. She examined Almira again maliciously. "What say you?"

Eyes turned to Almira, the atmosphere in the kitchen tense. To everyone's surprise, Almira suddenly dipped low, curtsying graciously.

"Your Highness," she said solemnly.

The woman laughed scornfully.

Krem watched in amazement as Almira then rushed her, knocking the cook forcefully to the ground, and began slapping at her with her hands. The woman began to scream.

"What are you doing?" the woman shouted.

"This is for how Your Majesty treated elves!" Almira yelled, aiming another ineffective swat at the woman's defensively raised arms.

"Are you mad?" the cook bellowed, trying to still Almira's hands. "I'm not really the Empress! I did nothing to your people!"

"And that," Almira shouted, "is the difference, isn't it? You can stop when you are pretending, whenever convenient, if you choose to do so…But Krem is not pretending. You cannot stop being who you really are!"

She pushed herself up and off the cook, who'd fallen silent at her words and as she turned to face Krem, she glimpsed in his face a sad but tender smile. She returned it, just as his smile suddenly vanished.

"Almira, behind you!"

She did try to heed the warning, but the frying pan landed heavily on the side of her skull regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ask and ye shall receive. You guys rock. Seriously. I was worried about lingering too long on this arc, of boring everyone and you guys made me so happy with your comments and PMs. Let's move right along then! I hope you continue to enjoy this!


	38. What the Eyes Can't See (Part VIII)

"My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardly be described."  
― Yann Martel

* * *

"You crazy, crazy girl," Krem censured her affectionately, as he held the bundle of ice to the lump on her head at the infirmary.

"That Fereldan cow is the crazy one," Almira mumbled.

"What were you thinking? Never turn your back on your foes during an argument!" he said. "And you do not need to fight my battles," he told her. "Especially if I don't see the need for a battle."

"She was insulting you."

At that he couldn't help grinning.

"I couldn't give a damn about what she thinks. I'm not going to give an ignorant, hateful person the satisfaction."

"I couldn't stand it. You're my friend," she fumed quietly, glancing at him.

He almost said, "Then get used to it" but he didn't want to upset her further. Instead he tilted her head carefully to look at her poor swollen cheek. He hissed lightly.

"Think your father has an ointment for this?"

"Oh, I am sure I am bound to find out…" she grumbled. "Ah, this entire half of my head hurts!" she groaned.

Krem clucked his tongue and examined her.

"What about your face. Does it hurt?"

"Not that mu—"

"…Because it is killing me," he teased.

"Ass," she kicked his leg as he burst out in laughter. "What are you? A child?" She crossed her arms. "I have to remember that one," she muttered. "I'll get you back," she said quickly.

"I know you will. You always do." His hand brushed over the bruise very gently. "Some pair we are," he muttered. She closed her eyes briefly, his touch soothing and welcome. "Thank you. Just know that for you, I'll gladly tear down a tavern, anytime," he grinned, stroking her cheek.

"And for you, I'll take a frying pan to the head, willingly, anytime... But not gladly, because this fighting stuff hurts," she said seriously.

He planted a tiny kiss on her head, by the large lump.

* * *

Almira was dismissed from her scullery job.

The Fereldan cook had been sent home immediately after their altercation, but she couldn't imagine that had been much of a reprimand. She was upset and some of the other maids had complained about the decision, but the Head Cook had been unable to overlook the rules. Provocation or not, rightly so or otherwise, Almira had struck the first blow. And that couldn't be tolerated.

"I'm sorry, luv. I'll put in a good word for you with the Brigade Staff Duty officer at the barracks, though. They are looking for people to help keep things tidy," the Head Cook told Almira, in an attempt to console her.

Almira decided it was worth a try.

"How bad can it be, right?" she shrugged as she described her unglamorous sacking to Krem.

"I don't know why you won't let me put in a good word for you with the higher-ups," Krem insisted as they walked back from the mess hall. "You're going to hate the barracks."

"I think it will actually be a big improvement," she said, tilting her head at a realization. "See? I am going to find myself among handsome, strapping soldiers everyday!" she said, gripped by a sudden giddiness.

Krem checked into her shoulder playfully before sighing resignedly.

"Hussy."

"Things are looking up!" she cried out.

* * *

The tankard of ale sat untouched before Almira as she rubbed her aching arms.

"I hate it," she glanced at Krem tearfully. "It's horrible."

She slumped forward and rested her chin on the edge of the tavern table looking completely despondent.

"These soldiers are beasts."

Rocky and Stitches looked at Krem, seeking an explanation as they listened in confusion.

"Latrine duty," he stated quietly, raising the bottle of wine to his lips.

"Ah," they exchanged knowing glances.

"Is it really so hard to get it all inside the chamber pot?" she wondered.

"After a night of drinking, in the dark, it's amazing that any of it makes it into the pot at all…" Rocky offered as he shuffled the cards and began dealing them again.

"And blasted Blights, pick a chamber pot that suits your size...or output!" she complained. "I cannot tell you how many people have overflowing—"

"We get the idea. Thank you for the disgusting image; it is now searing a hole in my brain," Stitches interrupted.

"What's another hole among so many…" Dalish teased, organizing the cards in her hand.

"I hate it. I never want to go back…" she sighed morosely.

"What happened to those handsome shirtless soldiers?" Krem teased, giving her arm a rallying squeeze.

"They poop," she concluded glumly, as the Chargers burst out laughing.

"You'll be fine," Krem said encouragingly. "You won't be on latrine duty forever."

"I want nothing to do with those soldiers, ever again," she grumbled.

They snickered at her as she groused about her misfortunes as a lowly chamberpot maid.

He couldn't explain why, but her statement made him glad.

* * *

Almira clasped her hands behind her back and moved towards the training ring wearing a very smug grin.

He squinted past the sweat burning his eyes, and raised his shield again.

"Harder!" he yelled, addressing the line of combatants.

He slammed his shield into his opponent's, the clash thunderous, reverberating over the courtyard. He glimpsed the redheaded figure draping herself over the fence to observe them train.

She looked like she was up no good. Smiling for no reason. It made him feel slightly uneasy. He tore his gaze away and focused on the exercise.

"Again!" he roared over the din of shields colliding.

At the end of the practice, Almira slipped under the fence and began to help him collect his belongings: his canteen, his helm, a small face towel that she offered to him as he approached her. She was grinning unashamedly.

"You are up to no good," Krem confirmed his suspicion, standing straighter and taking a deep breath.

"Oh, I am up for all things good!" she sang.

He rubbed the towel over his face and tossed it over his shoulder, his breathing still labored.

"I am afraid to ask."

"I am attending a reception…" She turned her eyes up to him brightly.

"Will you be serving drinks or appetizers?" he zinged.

She pummeled his arm crossly. He chuckled, trying to defend himself from her furious onslaught.

"I am being squired by an Inquisition soldier to my very first Inquisition reception!" she revealed proudly, tossing her braid over her shoulder.

Krem blinked slowly, appearing disconcerted for a brief moment.

"That's…That's so nice, Almira," he told her.

"Isn't it? I couldn't wait to tell you!" she said with excitement.

He heard her babble about how she would wear her hair (loose, a flower behind her ear), asked him which of her two dresses she should don ("Shawl? Or no shawl?" she agonized) and bragged about stuffing her face with as many delicacies as she could.

He listened to her go on gleefully, responding appropriately whenever asked for an opinion. He was glad for her.

Wasn't he?

He wanted her to be happy, of course, he reasoned. She should be able to go off and enjoy herself.

But something else nagged at him, even as she gabbed on so enthusiastically.

It was hypocritical of him, he thought guiltily. Didn't he often go off on his romantic encounters whenever the opportunity arose? Why should it be any different for her?

 _It is fine_ , he thought stoically.  _We are friends_ , his brow furrowed as she spoke.

"Are you all right?" she asked suddenly, seeking his eyes. "You have this hard stare," she said, twisting her face into a serious expression in imitation of him.

He smiled weakly, distracted by her bow-shaped lips; would this soldier get to kiss her, feel her softness, savor her sweetness? He shook his head.

"I'm just tired, that's all. Tough practice today," he told her.

He contemplated her wistfully. He wanted to tell her something. Wanted to ask her if she would still be his friend if she fell in love with someone else. If she'd still care about him. Would still want to spend so much time with him. Laugh, tease each other, send ridiculous letters, not even need to agree on meeting to go have dinner together because it was a given.

 _Maker, I'm being foolish_.  _It's just a reception party, not a wedding,_  he smirked to himself.

"So who is the poor sod who'll have to drag you away from the dessert table?" he asked her, looking away.

"He is an Inquisition soldier," she explained.

"You said as much—who is he?" he insisted, walking ahead towards the stairwell.

Almira pressed her lips. She muttered something. Krem glanced back at her.

"Sorry—what's that?"

"I said I've never met him," she repeated.

Krem appeared taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"The girl I work with said the soldier who is taking her asked if she had a friend he could match up his roommate with because anytime they'd go out together, he would stay back in the barracks feeling sad, so she said, 'Come on, Almira! Say yes, or Harris won't want to take me and you're not doing anything and there will be free food and drinks.' So I said, 'Free food and drinks?' and she said 'Yeah!' and I said, 'Oh, the price is right!' and she said, 'I know, right?' and then I said—"

Krem rubbed his forehead as he laughed quietly at Almira's inane narratives that meandered terribly before getting anywhere.

"So what is his name? Maybe I know the guy—kicked his butt in the practice ring before."

"He's a  _Private_ ," she stated grandly.

Krem knocked her lightly on top of her head.

"Is his name private, too?" he asked with exasperation.

"Ow! His name is Private Chauncey, I'll have you know," she informed him. "Isn't that a lovely name?" she said dreamily.

He looked up at her in surprise.

"Chauncey? You said  _Chauncey_?" he asked.

She nodded enthusiastically.

He broke out into delighted laughter.

"What? What, now?" she yelled at him with impatience.

When they arrived at the door to the dispensary, so she could drop off her father's dinner, he apologized for laughing and told her he hoped she'd have a splendid time.

"Enjoy yourself! Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said deliberately, to annoy her.

He sauntered off into the brisk evening feeling at ease…and a little bit sheepish over the relief he felt.

* * *

Later on, as he sat among the Chargers, Stitches looked around them, perplexed.

"Where's your faithful shadow?"

"Ouais—it's too silent in here tonight," Skinner teased.

Krem grinned enigmatically.

"On a date."

"And you are okay with that?" Stitches asked, shooting him a sideways glance.

Krem leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.

"She's on a date with Chauncey," he revealed meaningfully.

"Pfffff!" Rocky spat his beer across the table.

"Poor thing!" Skinner interjected.

Krem cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Almira can more than handle it."

"What Almira? I was worried about Chauncey," she corrected him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chauncey...He made his debut in "A Matter of Consequence," where he got yelled at by Cullen, and has made a couple appearances here, more notably in chapters 8-9, where he gets a bit too chatty with Scout Harding...


	39. What the Eyes Can't See (Part IX)

**39: What the Eyes Can't See (Part IX)**

"A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up."

― Mae West

* * *

Almira was beyond miffed.

"I cannot believe you did not warn me!" she grumbled once more.

Krem turned to her, a charmingly innocent expression on his face.

"Warn you of what?" he wondered. "It would be terribly presumptuous of me to assume you and Private Chauncey wouldn't hit it off," he shrugged nonchalantly.

Grim grunted spiritedly but then feigned he was clearing his throat once Almira shifted her murderous gaze to him.

"But then what happened?" Skinner insisted. "And stop interrupting!" she warned Krem.

"Well," Almira resumed her narrative, surrounded by the Chargers. "I think he was trying to make up for losing our tickets, missing the Inquisitor's speech, and the whole seating arrangement confusion at the dinner table—"

"What seating arrangement confusion? I missed that part!" Stitches protested, pushing past Dalish and Rocky with his drink in hand.

"We had to sit on these little footstools at the edge of the table," Almira explained. "It was the only thing at hand. My dinner plate was right here the whole time," she stated, drawing a line with her hand by her neck. "He said to me then, 'Did you know that I am famous in my village for my voice?' And I said, 'If you start singing to me right now, I am going to split your face in half.' And he said, 'Ha! That would be a mistake, because I am NOT going to sing to you!' And I was about to say, 'That's the best thing about this evening so far,' but then he leaned in, close to my ear…"

Krem sat up a bit, uncomfortable at the thought of Chauncey behaving so boldly, as the others listened, mesmerized by the tale of imminent disaster.

Skinner clapped her hand over her mouth in disbelief, vicariously mortified for Chauncey.

"He didn't. Oh, Maker… tell us he didn't sing."

"Nope. He didn't sing," she said dryly. "Not Chauncey."

She paused for effect.

They were all on tenterhooks, waiting for her to go on.

"Well?…" Skinner despaired.

"He began to  _yodel_ ," she fumed.

They all fell into a stunned silence.

It was too much.

Krem threw his head back and began to laugh loudly in earnest. They were all laughing at that point, imagining the gawky private yodeling to a very pissed off Almira.

"I said to him, 'Stop it now, or I will make you.' And then I swear he started to yodel louder. So I grabbed him by the collar and tried to push him off the footstool. But he wouldn't be quiet! He wouldn't shut up! We were wrestling at the end of the table and everyone was silent, just looking at us! I was so embarrassed."

"What did you do?" Stitches egged her on.

"I just grabbed a dinner roll off my plate and tried to stuff it in his mouth to make him stop. But I shouldn't have bothered because two guards ran up to us and escorted us out for being disruptive," she sulked. "I didn't even tell you the worst of it yet!" she continued, indignantly.

"Mercy! There is more?" Rocky cried out incredulously, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Would you believe that after all that, as we were standing there outside the hall, he had the gall to say that he'd had fun that evening and that he'd like to see me again? I told him I'd rather be shit on by a dragon than ever go out with him again, but he said he'd make it up to me and that he'd give me a token of his affection. This morning I woke up afraid he was going to do something stupid, so I was very relieved when I went to work and nothing had happened," she told them. "But then… when I was doing my rounds and pulled out this one chamberpot from beneath a cot, I had the surprise of my life."

She leaned back and pursed her lips.

"It was a chamberpot filled with flowers," she revealed in an irate tone. "He picked me all these flowers but stuck them in his chamberpot."

"Nooooo!" Skinner cried.

"He wanted to make sure you received them," Rocky chortled.

"It is sweet…in a completely deranged way," Dalish concluded.

Krem just laughed until his stomach ached, until he ran out of breath, calming down only to erupt again upon imagining the furious look on Almira's face.

"Just another fragrant bouquet," he managed to say, his face flushed from laughing so hard.

* * *

"Actually, it wasn't all that bad," Almira admitted to Krem later on, as they wandered back together to her quarters. The night was crisp and clear; the moon loomed large in the sky, glowing brightly above them, bathing them in a silvery light.

"Chauncey is pretty harmless," Krem agreed. "It could have been much more unpleasant."

"Oh, really? Remind me to yodel at you in public sometime," she muttered, watching him succumb to another giggling fit. "But you know, even though Chauncey is an ass, the Inquisition has allowed him to try so many different career paths…I think he's inspired me. I think I know what I might want to try next!" she announced.

"Oh?" Krem leaned against the wall.

"I've made a decision," she told him, her eyes twinkling. "I want to become an Inquisition scout!"

Krem shifted in his spot, finally shaking his head.

"You shouldn't do it."

"Why not?" she insisted. "I have visited most of southern Thedas with my father, I know many remote areas, and I am a good traveler. I can walk large distances in a day," she began.

He waved his hands before her in disagreement.

"It's not that, Almira," he told her. "All those things are true, but there's more to being an Inquisition scout. The Chargers have gone out with Scout Harding and her team on more than a few missions to establish base camps at remote locations or reestablish communications in areas where contact was lost. I can tell you right now: every single scout knows how to fight, how to wield a weapon. The places they go to are dangerous," he emphasized.

"I can learn," she said pensively. "Everyone needs to start somewhere."

Krem watched her, so hopelessly clueless, so very innocent and naive of the darkness that lurked off the beaten path. The thought of her going off on an expedition made him worried.

"Under better circumstances, though. This is no time to take unnecessary risks," he told her. "There are Venatori out there, rift demons…"

She contemplated him, a serious expression on his earnest face, his arms crossed imposingly over his chest even as he leaned casually against the stone wall. He was strong and accustomed to battle. She couldn't imagine what that life was like. She probably seemed so helpless to him, she imagined.

"I am sure I could hold my own," she told him. "Baba and I have had our share of scrapes when we were on the road."

"What? Outrunning druffalo in a field?" he joked, smirking.

"Well, my father knows how to use a slingshot. Once I was being chased by a man—"

"Only once?" he laughed, his eyes widening.

She huffed. He chuckled, charmed; he loved watching her brow furrow, her exasperated expressions.

"—He was yelling that I was picking herbs in his land and tried to take my basket. But he was no farmer and that wasn't any farmland we knew of, so I started to run and he started to chase me…but I made him run for a long time and he couldn't catch me. I called out to my father, and he aimed the slingshot and knocked the man out cold in the field."

"That's impressive," Krem agreed. "What did you do next?"

"We hurried up out of there- hitched the cart and rode out before he came to. Then we told a patrol we met up on the road. I don't think they did anything about him, though. Didn't even ask where we'd left him. I'm sure it's because we were elves."

"So your most valuable skill is that you can beat a hasty retreat?" he asked as he tilted his head.

Almira paused. It didn't sound right.

"When you put it like that…"

"Danger comes along, everyone else fights…and you run."

She pondered it for a moment before nodding.

"Absolutely. I get to be the only survivor."

He laughed lightly.

"I could deliver messages between camps, run through hostile territory," she imagined, spreading her hands out before her, summoning a desolate landscape filled with dangers.

"Do you know how quickly demons move? They glide— most don't even have legs—" Krem began.

"Do you know how quickly I run?" she challenged him. "I'm fast…very fast…" She pointed her finger at him. "And don't you dare make any jokes about how I'm 'fast' in other ways, Cremiscius Aclassi! You are in enough trouble with me as it is!"

He raised his palms to her appeasingly.

"I said nothing…"

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly and sashayed up to him.

"I bet I could outrun you."

Krem laughed again, amused.

"You might be fast, but I'm faster," he argued.

"No, you're not," she grinned sassily.

"You don't want to find out," he warned.

"Oh, but I do!" she moved towards him as he stared at her in wonder, her face suddenly close up to his.

He felt a sharp pinch on his nose.

"You're it!" she yelled, turning away and running down the courtyard at a frenzied pace.

He swore under his breath and lurched forward, in her direction.

"You brat!" he yelled at her.

She halted abruptly at the top of a stairwell and leaned forward.

"Does Aclassi mean "of the turtles" in Tevene?"

He did not even bother to reply and instead raced up the steps, the adrenaline pumping through him. He couldn't believe how she rested her hands over her waist and began to wiggle her hips in a little mocking dance as he approached her rapidly.

"How will you ever live this down!" she teased as he reached the top of the steps.

His arm shot out just as she turned away from him, his fingers grazing her back. He heard her shriek, delighted, and he growled. She was fast, he thought, his boots pounding over the cobblestones, a crooked grin insinuating itself on his lips. She moved nimbly, flying over the ground. In a few seconds, she had managed to put a respectable distance between them—and he was a fast runner himself.

They raced throughout Skyhold, bursting past a group of Chantry Sisters returning from evening services in the garden chapel, piercing the austere silence of the archways with the stomping of their feet and her maddening giggles.

"When I catch you, I'm going to teach you a lesson!" he threatened.

"Boo!…First you have to actually catch me. Hopefully the lesson won't be about running, because you really suck at that, Lieutenant!" she taunted him, turning her head and sticking out her tongue.

They were both panting at this point, weaving past startled bystanders, up and down stairwells, until they were racing down the ramparts, ducking through dusty, decaying passageways, speeding over creaking floorboards, and back out into the open.

He finally reached her when one of the doors to a connecting passageway would not budge. As he rushed in pursuit onto the ramparts, he saw her struggle with the door. She was nervously casting glances over her shoulder as she frantically tugged at the broken handle. He boosted his pace for the last stretch, knowing he would catch her before she could wriggle away.

There was nowhere to run, he realized gleefully: she was his.

Almira let out a terrified cry as he pinned her against the door, both of them out of breath, exhausted. They examined each other wordlessly, his chest heaving, little beads of sweat on his forehead, and he saw her smile at him broadly.

"I win," she gasped.

"What? You," he said between breaths, "are absolutely crazy."

"If it hadn't been for this broken door, I would have easily gotten away," she explained.

He shook his head in disbelief, stepping back to contemplate her.

"So that's going to be your strategy? Argue with your pursuers once they catch you?"

He watched as she feinted to the left and attempted to slip past him from the right. His arms flew up, trapping her again, between himself and the door.

"Blight!" she bemoaned.

"This," he continued, "is where the fighting comes in handy," he winked.

She was so close, he thought, peering into her impish green eyes.

He wanted to kiss her so badly right then, he realized.

They remained in silence, lost in each other's proximity, still, as they regained their breaths.

It was due to an unaccustomed and fearful shyness on her part that she did not give in to the impulse to raise her hand to his face, caress his cheek, wipe his brow. They lingered like that, unwilling to interrupt the moment, using their tiredness as an excuse.

"Come on," he finally shook himself away, denying the desire that threatened to overcome him— that could possibly ruin the friendship they had built. "You  _had_  to run to the opposite end of the fortress, didn't you? Now we have to walk all the way back."

"Do you want me to run down to the infirmary?" she taunted. She had felt a stab of disappointment as he had pulled away from her but concealed it with cheer. "I can have a team of healers come get you in a stretcher," she said with false helpfulness.

He sneered, placing his hands on his back, and stretched.

"You know, if I hadn't been wearing all this armor, I would have been even faster," he told her, waiting for her reaction.

"Excuses, excuses," she sang in an infuriating tone.

She then approached him, looping her arm in his, as she often did, tugging him forward. He was glad for her touch, for her nearness as they began their leisurely walk back, neither one wanting to let go of the other.

* * *

Krem inspected his equipment as the Chargers unpacked at the campsite. As he lay his maul down on the ground, his eyes glimpsed a shadow— something small and dark, a lump of sorts, tied in thin leather straps at the bottom of the heavy handle. He squinted in the firelight, turning the maul around to examine it closer.

It was a tiny wooden carving of a turtle, securely bound against the handle.

"Brat," he uttered softly, as he carefully undid the straps and placed the little carving in the safety of his pocket.

_Does "Aclassi" mean "of the turtles" in Tevene?_

He snorted, shaking his head. He could envision her comically shaking her hips at him on top of the stairwell.

He missed her something fierce at that moment.


	40. What the Eyes Can't See (Part X)

 

"Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay las hay.”—Galician proverb

(I don't believe in witches, but that they exist, they exist.)

* * *

 

 

Almira's dreams were troubled. She stirred restlessly, so agitated in her sleep that that her father had gone over to her bed, leaned over her, prodding her arm gently to awaken her. In the morning he asked what had overcome her in the night. She stared at him tiredly, her face still wrinkled with sleep.

 

“I had the most annoying dream,” she told him as she watched him poke the fire in the hearth before placing the heavy cast iron skillet over the flames. “My teeth kept falling out and I was trying to hold on to them. I’d clutch them in my fist, but they kept slipping out between my fingers.”

 

“Hmm,” her father grumbled, suddenly pensive. “A dream of teeth.”

 

Almira yawned and rubbed her cheeks.

 

“I even checked my mouth when I woke up. Good thing they are still there,” she mumbled crossly.

 

Her father glared at the fire, concern settling over his face.

 

“I don't like it,” he finally announced. “Do you know what dreaming of teeth means?”

 

“No,” she replied, focusing on the fragrant breakfast cakes solidifying in the pan. 

 

“They say that if you dream of teeth, someone close to you will be in danger—possibly even die,” he said.

 

“Here we go!” she hit the table impatiently with her palms. “Who is 'they'?” she asked crossly. “How do teeth falling out of my mouth affect anyone else other than myself!” she complained. “Honestly, Baba!”

 

He shrugged.

 

“Perhaps if we were Shems...But it is well known that among mages and elves, dreams acquire greater meaning… because we are more connected to the Fade.”

 

“Who's more connected to the Fade?” Almira scoffed irritated. “That's rich! Well, if it’s a dream about disaster, it must be true, then, because nothing but disaster happens to us poor folk, right? I am going to wait for a dream about the location of a mine filled with silverite or summerstone before I begin believing in all this nonsense!”

 

Her father set her food on a plate, cast the pot with a loud hiss into a bucket of water, and then hastily grabbed his jacket.

 

“I don't like it, Almira,” he repeated, nervously. “I'm heading straight to work. I want Master Adan to examine me for any ailments.”

 

“Ask him to check here, first” she tapped her forehead. 

 

He ignored her, bumbling around the room in a slight dither, mumbling something about 'teeth' and 'omen' and 'serious.'

 

“It's not good, not good,” he continued, pulling on his coat before making his way to the door. “Your grandmother on your mother’s side was Eran’ghilan,” he said, referring to the ‘dream guides,” those whose dreams carried prophetic meaning among their people. “You shouldn’t take these things so lightly.”

 

“Thanks for the serving of crazy with my breakfast cake!” she called out irreverently. 

 

She shook her head after he shut the door behind him hurriedly and began to eat. She tried to think of other things, but her mind kept returning to her father's spooked demeanor.

 

“Heh. ' _They_ say.' Who is this almighty ' _they_ ' anyway? Heap of dung,” she told herself while glaring at the closed door. 

 

She tried to eat her breakfast with a renewed vigor, but could not shake the uneasiness that had arisen within her. She eventually pushed the plate away, deciding to get dressed for work, instead.

 

* * *

 

 

The dark feeling of foreboding only intensified throughout the day, her father's words unintentionally haunting her. She only realized why when she took the loaf of honey bread he had baked the previous night on her way to bid Krem farewell before his next mission. Whenever she could, work allowing, she would see him off at the gates, bringing him something to eat on his journey to whatever corner of Thedas the Chargers were expected at. She reassured herself that nothing was amiss; that afternoon was no different from the many afternoons she had watched them prepare for their journeys. She helped Krem lug gear into a long wagon, cursing at him as he playfully dropped a heavy visor over her head. She waited with him as equipment and supplies for their band were inspected and cleared. She was surprised to notice that a heavier escort prepared to accompany them.

 

“It's a big deal,” Krem explained.

 

They had been unable to meet and talk much before the trip precisely because the mission appeared to require so much preparation. Even there, at the gates, she found they were constantly interrupted by the other Chargers and Inquisition soldiers. At one point, even Bull called out to him.

 

“Krem! You ride ahead—I'll follow with the Inquisitor. We have only four days to hightail it to the rendez-vous point.”

 

Krem acknowledged the command as Almira stared in stupefaction.

 

“The Inquisitor?” she marveled. 

 

He stared down at the checkered cloth.

 

“I might as well tell you—it's not going to be a secret for much longer: the Inquisition is contemplating an alliance with the Qunari,” he told her. “The Chief has been coordinating this mission for a long time. I doubt he's gotten any sleep over the past few weeks,” he confided, with a smirk as he watched Iron Bull storm about the courtyard, checking in with anyone who appeared to be involved with the mission.

 

Almira stared at Krem, admiring what a striking figure he cut, his carefully polished armor, his recently shorn hair, and that fierce expression that emerged on his face when he was focused on his work.

 

“Where are you off to this time?” she asked.

 

“Storm Coast,” he said, finally glancing back at her. “But I can't tell you more than that.”

 

“No letters?” she asked sadly. Sometimes, if they were off to somewhere remote or moving frequently, they couldn't exchange their letters.

 

“Not this time,” he stated distractedly, something catching his attention in the courtyard. 

 

“You will miss out on all the excitement here,” she lamented. 

 

He hadn't heard, though. The sinking feeling gripped her once more and she found she was having difficulty shaking it off.

 

“Excuse me,” he apologized, squeezing her arm reassuringly. “I'll be right back.”

 

She watched him jaunt over to a stable boy leading three saddled horses. He pointed the boy to a group of armored soldiers waiting by the main gates.

 

The dread intensified, chilling her innards, causing her to shiver uncomfortably despite the mild afternoon. She stared at the pattern on the cloth wrapping the bread and it began to blur as tears began to well in her eyes. Krem sauntered back towards her, his attention still engaged by some activity unfurling nearby.

 

“Stitches has to stay back,” he revealed as he approached her, his head turned towards the corner where Stitches spoke quietly to Dalish. “He hasn't healed completely. Yanked his chain a bit: told him we don’t need his gimping to slow us down.” He stopped beside her, still focusing his attention to the two standing farther away. “Psh, look at them. He's worried sick about her.” He grinned. “He's probably going to say something to piss her off just before she leaves, though, knowing him.” 

 

Almira allowed her gaze to follow his, to where Stitches and Dalish stood, their heads drawn close, their words hushed and private. Stitches contemplated Dalish with a forlorn expression, while she prodded at something in the ground with her foot, her eyes downcast.

 

“Stitches and Dalish?” she asked, still unable to focus clearly on the fuzzy figures ahead.

 

“You didn't know? Those two have hopped into each other's bed more often than I've awoken in a foreign town since I've become a Charger. They maintain it's strictly physical, but as Rocky likes to say, for something purely physical, they sure have been taking their time exploring each other's topography, exclusively...” he chuckled, finally directing his gaze back to Almira.

 

He found her staring at him dazedly, her cheeks tear stricken.

 

“What's wrong?” he cried, gripping her by the shoulders.

 

She didn't know and she couldn't say as she contemplated his face wordlessly, bewildered by the depth of feeling that surged within her. She covered her eyes with her cupped hands; she didn't want to give greater power to a stupid dream she wished she had never had, never told her superstitious father about!

 

“Why are you crying? Are you unwell? You look so pale!” he insisted, his own expression filling with heartbroken concern. 

 

_Someone close to you will be in danger—possibly even die…Have I cursed him?_ she wondered, gripped by the thought. _Undo it, Almira! Undo it now!_

 

“Be careful,” she managed to say, gripping his hands so tightly her knuckles turned white and her fingers trembled. She couldn’t bear the pained look emerging in his eyes. 

 

_What if this is the last time—_

 

_No._

 

She took the small loaf she had placed in her satchel and pointed at the bundle as she backed away from him. “Make sure you return that dishtowel to me when you return, yes?”

 

He looked down at the ordinary towel, the hem unfurling from frequent wash and use. 

 

“Almira?” he wondered, watching her as she stepped away from him uncharacteristically. “What is this all about?”

 

“You have to return it,” she insisted. “All right?”

 

“Please: what is this all about?” he tried once more. 

 

“You have to come back, understood?” she pleaded tearfully, her voice clearly shaking. “I will never, ever forgive you if you don't come back to me… and return it.”

 

She turned away without a further word and ran, denying him even her usual ‘dareth shiral.’

 

_This is not good-bye. We have unfinished business between us. He must return_ , she stubbornly argued with whatever invisible forces might rule such matters. 

 

The horn sounded at the gate and he knew he would have to assemble for departure. Normally Almira would walk out the gates with him, wave at the bridge as he left.

 

Right then he found himself alone, staring in the direction she had run off to. He wished he had enough time to pursue her, inquire what that odd scene had been about. He had never seen her so distraught. 

 

_Kaffas! The timing couldn’t have been worse,_ he exhaled frustratedly.

 

“Krem, are you ready?” Rocky stopped before him.

 

He blinked for a few moments, clutching the small wrapped loaf she had entrusted him with.

 

"Ooh! I know we haven't left the gates yet, but can I have a piece?" Rocky rubbed his hands as he contemplated the bread covetously.

 

“Yes,” he finally managed to reply, telling himself that once he returned, it would be all right. “Go ahead. Eat as much as you’d like and then you won't have to walk down the mountain: you’ll just roll down,” he teased, as the dwarf tore a hunk off.

 

Krem held on to the cloth, though, fingering the edge carefully, as senseless as it all seemed to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Anyone else familiar with this dreaming of teeth thing? It was a superstition in my family for sure and I know it is the same in many different cultures.


	41. What the Eyes Can't See (Part XI)

"He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight."

― Sun Tzu

* * *

Rain.

"They weren't fucking around when they named this place 'the Storm Coast,'" Rocky grumbled.

The thin rain drizzled over them persistently, relentlessly.

 _Doesn't matter_ , Krem thought,  _it'll heat up soon enough_. His eyes scanned the landscape unfolding before them as they reached the top of the hill.

Further ahead, Bull and the Inquisitor led their band towards a pre-determined meeting point established a couple miles away from the nearest camp.

On a mild drop a few steps away, their eyes caught the motion of the billowing surface of a dingy tarp.

Bull pointed and they marched forward.

"Our Qunari contact should be here to meet us," Krem overheard him say to her as they looked around, searching for evidence of his presence.

"He is!" a voice responded jovially.

A slender elf emerged to greet them, his armor glistening in the rain.

"Good to see you again, Hissrad," his expression softened as Bull's smile spread over his face.

"Gatt! Last I heard, you were still in Seheron!"

The elf smirked.

"They finally decided I'd calmed down enough to go back into the world."

"Boss," Bull turned to the Inquisitor proudly, "this is Gatt. We worked together in the Seheron."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor. Hissrad's reports say you're doing good work."

She glanced at them both, perplexed.

"Iron Bull's name is 'Hissrad?'"

"Under the Qun, we use titles, not names," Gatt stated.

Viddathari, Krem realized. He always thought it amusing how much more Qunari their mannerisms were than Bull's. The elf had striking, transparent green eyes, he'd noticed. They were sharp and calculating.

 _Nowhere as light and bright as Almira's_ ,  _though_ , he remarked to himself.

Hers were warm and alive with mischief. He pat his pocket, checking for his newest companion, the little wooden turtle she'd given him. He'd been so tempted to write to her from one of the camps, but he couldn't afford to have their position leaked, even if by accident.

"My title," Bull explained, "was Hissrad, because I was assigned to secret work. You can translate it as 'keeper of illusions' or—"

"Liar," the elf said, a bit more cuttingly than any of them would have expected. "It means  _liar_."

"Well, you don't have to say it like  _that_!" Bull smarted from the slight.

"I look forward to working together," the Inquisitor tactfully intervened.

"Hopefully this will help both our peoples, Tevinter is dangerous enough without the influence of this Venatori cult. If this new form of lyrium helps them seize power in Tevinter, the war with Qunandar could get worse," Gatt offered.

"With this stuff, Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks," Bull stated. "We could lose Seheron and see a giant Tevinter army come marching back down here."

"The Ben-Hassrath agree," Gatt nodded. "That's why we're here. Our dreadnaught is safely hidden out of view and out of range of any Venatori mages running ashore. We'll need to eliminate the Venatori and signal the dreadnaught so it can come in and take out the smuggler ship," he informed them.

"What do you think, Bull?" the Inquisitor turned to him.

He exhaled, troubled.

"Don't know. I've never liked covering a dreadnaught run. Too many ways for crap to go wrong." Bull cast Gatt a resentful glance. It was the sort of operation that would have warranted more soldiers and more coverage. Krem could tell Bull was annoyed. "If our scouts underestimate enemy numbers, we're dead," he said pointedly. "If we can't lock down the Venatori mages, the ship is dead. It's risky," he concluded.

"Riskier than letting red lyrium into Minrathous?" Gatt asked provocatively.

Bull frowned.

"There might be Venatori mages on the ship as well," the Inquisitor pondered. "The dreadnaught can't handle them."

"It's unlikely there will be more than two or three mages on the ship. And they'll be dead by the third shot. On land, though, a half dozen Venatori attacking the dreadnaught from cover could do some serious damage."

The Inquisitor appeared to share Bull's reticence. Krem began sensing that both of them were beginning to regret the trust they had placed in the Qun agents to coordinate most of the operation.

"If it's dangerous for the dreadnaught to go close to shore, why not attack when the smugglers reach open water?" she wondered suspiciously.

"Any decent smuggling ship could outrun a dreadnaught on open water. We need to catch them close to shore!" Gatt insisted.

The Inquisitor seemed unconvinced.

"I could have crushed any Venatori resistance with the Inquisition's main forces," she argued. "Why not use them?"

Gatt appeared undaunted.

"Because then the Venatori would have seen you coming…and run. They'd schedule a new shipment for later and us spies might not know when or where. This is risky, yes—" he conceded, "but it is our best chance to destroy the shipping operation permanently."

The Inquisitor remained silent, her fist clenched by her side. Krem had fought alongside her enough to know she was irritated.

"Let's go hold up our end of this bargain, then," she stated finally.

"My agents suggested two possible locations the Venatori may be camped to guard the shore." He pointed behind him, to his left, over a craggy cliff. "There," he indicated. "And there," he directed their attention to his right, a hillside shrouded with towering trees. We need to split up to hit both at once," he explained.

Bull faced the Inquisitor. In the nearby distance, waiting also were Seeker Pentaghast, Varric, and Blackwall.

"I'll come with you, boss," he said.

At his use of the word "boss," Gatt chafed, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Krem can lead the Chargers," Bull decided, shooting him a quick nod over his shoulder before addressing the Inquisitor once more. "Come by when you're ready to move."

Krem signaled towards his band, urging them to follow him to a nearby grassy knoll, where they were supposed to equip the remainder of their gear and weapons and await their orders. Bull followed them quietly.

"Once they're down, send up your signal," Bull instructed the Chargers. "That'll let the dreadnaught know it's safe to come in."

"Understood, Chief."

Bull's face acquired a somber expression.

"Remember: you're going to want a volley to start, but don't get suckered into fighting at range," he warned them. "They've got mages," he said tensely.

"It's all right," Krem reassured him cockily. "We've got a mage of our own."

"I'm not a mage!" Dalish rolled her eyes, protesting as the Inquisitor approached them.

"Get in close and get their enchanter down before he takes over the battlefield."

"He'll be dead before he knows it." Skinner pat her daggers.

Bull pressed his lips together before he exhaled audibly.

"Just…pay attention, all right?" He peered around the group, making sure they were all listening. "The Vints want this red lyrium shipment bad."

"Yes, I know!" Krem huffed impatiently. If he wasn't going to give him concrete directions, he could do without the coddling. "Thanks, mother," he teased, watching his companions smirk.

Bull began to step away.

"Qunaris don't have mothers, remember?"

"We'll be fine, Chief!" he nodded.

"All right, Chargers!" Bull gave them a rallying grin. "Horns up!"

"Horns up!" Krem echoed, signaling them forward.

"Ready whenever you are, boss."

The Inquisitor acknowledged him, just as eager to settle the matter.

"I'm ready to head out, Bull."

"Right! Chargers! Hit them hard and hit them fast. When this is over, drinks are on me!"

"You got it, Chief!" Krem smiled roguishly. "Chargers! Double time! Let's move!" he roared over the clatter of armor and din of weapons being hauled up.

* * *

As Gatt watched the band of mercenaries march off, he crossed his arms and shook his head.

"You gave your Chargers the easier target," he noted condescendingly.

"You think?" Bull replied, feigning surprise.

Evelyn grinned. Between her own skills and Cassandra's magic thwarting, she was confident of victory. Venatori, pampered mages who did not know much beyond Tevinter, would not know how to respond to a seasoned Seeker, never expecting to find their abilities so easily challenged, diminished…doused out. And Cassandra was ready; she could tell from the resolute expression on her face. She knew Bull wanted to spare the Chargers from the mess Gatt was plunging them into. Gatt would get what he wanted, but he was going to have to get that shiny armor of his quite dirty...

* * *

Krem kicked the shoulder of the dead Vint lying on the ground as he walked by and rested his maul over his shoulder. Grim had fired off the signal and they'd watched the flares to summon the dreadnaught light up the grey sky from the hill opposite.

"Enjoy the show," he told them, nodding towards the rocky bay below.

A medium-sized smuggling vessel rocked in the waves perilously, attempting to dock alongside an improvised dock consisting of a cluster of rocks.

They all watched in awe as the large battleship drifted into position, blasting off a volley of fiery shots that arched across the sky before striking the smaller boat.

The vessel lit up, aglow in a blanket of flames before splintering in half. Its broken halves managed to float for a few brief moments before being swallowed up by the crashing waves.

They let out a celebratory cheer.

"Drinks on the Chief!" Rocky cried out, tossing his short arms upwards.

"I am ordering the finest vintage in the house," Skinner decided.

"What vintage and what house?" Dalish teased her.

"Doesn't matter—but that's my plan!" she chuckled. "I deserve it."

Krem wondered if they could start heading back that same evening. He was antsy, eager to return to Skyhold. He crouched down, watching the dreadnaught rest triumphantly over the tossing sea.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eyes and turned his head towards the rocky shore.

"Reinforcements!" he alerted his soldiers.

They all unsheathed their weapons. Krem gripped his shield firmly, bracing himself for the new onslaught.

Two, three, emerged from a small cove, their dark hoods obscuring their faces.

It would be a struggle, but they could handle the attack if they located the enchanter among them first.

It was when several other Venatori cornered the rock joining the band heading towards the hill that his resolve began to crumble.

"Krem?" Dalish ventured nervously. "Orders?"

He looked across to where Bull and the Inquisitor supposedly stood, his heart heavy.

"We hold this position as ordered!" he announced. "Until we are told otherwise: Hold. Your. Ground," he warned them.

"We can't hold these many off without backup," Rocky whispered behind him. "And the Chief will never make it to us in time. You know that!"

Krem thought of Bull, remembering a night long ago, his large hand splayed over his bloodied face, his eye gruesomely and irrevocably damaged. Bull had run to his aid at one of his most desperate hours. He'd never asked for anything in exchange.

He'd be damned if he'd fail him now. Cost whatever it cost. On his honor.

"When we joined with the Inquisition, we joined something greater than ourselves," he told them, watching as the hooded figures began to assemble below and plot their ascent. "We don't fight these Vints just because we are paid for it; we fight because we  _must_. Against Corypheus. For our mates who perished at Haven and Adamant. Remember that. Chargers, prepare for attack," he called out.

They would do as he commanded.

They trusted him.

* * *

Evelyn rushed to Bull's side, his expression conflicted as he watched the Venatori mages process over the beach.

"They've still got time to fall back if you signal them  _now_!" she urged him, pointing towards the hill.

"Yeah," he uttered nervously, glancing back at the dreadnaught.

Gatt sneered at her.

"Your men need to hold that position, Bull!" he said, an ominous timbre to his words.

"They do that, they're dead," he replied.

"And if they don't, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnaught is dead!" he countered between clenched teeth. "You'll be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari!" An incredulous expression marred the otherwise shrewd face. "You'd be declaring yourself Tal'Vashoth!"

Bull bristled angrily at the threat.

"With all you've given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you've betrayed us already!" Gatt accused. "I stood up for you, Hissrad! I told them you would never become Tal'Vashoth."

Bull leaned in, intimidatingly.

"They're  _my_  men."

"I know," Gatt stepped back, this time speaking to him in a more appeasing manner. "But you need to do what's right, Hissrad! For this alliance and for the Qun!" he implored.

Bull tensed, lowering his eye helplessly to Evelyn, gripping the battle horn tightly; he would act solely on her orders.

* * *

Almira had been dunking her mop into the bucket and swishing it across the floors all afternoon when the commotion spread through the barracks. Confusion rang in the air. She couldn't understand what was happening, but found herself rushing towards the courtyard along with others, fearful of an attack. She had heard what had happened at Haven.

She remembered her wretched dream.

 _Maybe we are under siege?_  she wondered nervously.  _Baba_! she panicked.

She could see Commander Cullen by the gates, engaged in a heated discussion with a uniformed scout and a small band of ragged soldiers. She caught snippets of conversation around her, uttered in hushed, alarmed tones.

"An attack"

"Venatori."

"Overran the camp in broad daylight…"

"Slaughter."

A desperate cry sounded out from among the soldiers and spread as rapidly as wildfire among the crowd.

"The Inquisitor is missing!"

The ever-growing roar overtook the courtyard along with shouts of disbelief and wails of grief. Almira did not know what was happening but she felt faint from the thundering pounding in her ears. Her breath had become shallow as she found herself shoved to and fro in the tumultuous assemblage.

Commander Cullen eventually took to the main stairwell and after climbing to a landing overhanging the courtyard, began to address the swarm of soldiers, workers, merchants, mages, Chanters, servants, pilgrims, nobles, and delegates, calling for order and calm.

At the sound of his voice, the tumult began to die down, and every face was expectantly absorbed in whatever the Commander was about to say.

"Inquisition, you must exercise caution and restraint," he said, his eyes taking in the aggrieved and shocked miens in his audience. "It is too early still, and the only concrete news we do have is a report of an isolated attack on one of our camps in the Storm Coast. We must trust that there is forthcoming information. We must not let panic dictate the course of our next actions. We will maintain you informed of any developments regarding the Inquisitor," he said.

He stepped back and immediately the din began to rise again, the people still worried and dissatisfied. The Commander glanced back cautiously at his co-advisers and the few Chantry members standing nearby, before the Main Hall's entrance above, and appeared to be exchanging a few words with them. At one point he then nodded, beckoning at one of them, a woman in long Chantry robes.

"Mother Giselle will lead us in a vigil while we wait," he announced, ushering the woman forth with visible relief on his tired face.

The woman nodded to him appreciatively as he stepped back behind her, his hands folded respectfully before him. She was not a large woman, but she had an impressive presence.

"Have faith," she said simply, a hopeful smile on her face. "We have weathered greater storms." Again the rumbling died down at her soothing voice. "Let us seek the Maker's comfort and take strength in each other as we await, together" she encouraged them, raised her hands, hands splayed out to them, in a sign of blessing, and lowered her head in contemplation.

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder…" she began, in a firm, melodious voice. All around her, Almira watched as heads bowed, hands rose clasped before lips, fingers laced tightly, and fervent voices joined in the recitation.

She did not know the words nor the ritual those around her were partaking in and wandered aimlessly through the crowd, trying to depart the gathering.

"Almira!" she heard someone cry out nearby.

She glanced around, trying to locate the speaker.

"Almira! Here!" the voice called out again. This time she saw a group of people engaged in prayer raise their heads annoyedly at the speaker.

 _Stitches_! she saw, deeply relieved.  _He must know something or have some news_ , she hoped, rushing through the crowd.

Stitches watched the completely distraught Almira approach him.

"Come on," he encouraged her, gripping her shoulder for support with his injured leg. "We have to find Lord Pavus."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Gatt's dialogue is all from the game. I'm not fond of Gatt, as you might be able to tell. I wouldn't even trust the guy to lay out paper plates at a picnic ("Oh, look: we miscalculated how many plates we actually need..."). Oh, and he has a mullet. Case closed!


	42. What the Eyes Can't See (Part XII)

"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."  
― J.R.R. Tolkien

* * *

"I'm one of the Chargers," Stitches stated authoritatively to one of the sentinels guarding one of the side entrances to the Main Hall. He pat down his vest and pulled out a carefully folded letter, the seal broken, but still attached to the parchment. Almira supported his arm over her shoulder, swallowing nervously, not sure of what she'd do if the soldier turned her away.

Apparently satisfied with the evidence presented him, the soldier waved Stitches in, but barred Almira as she stepped forward to take his arm. Her heart stopped.

"She's with me—I require her aid to get around, as you can see," Stitches argued. The soldier took in a deep breath. "You're not going to make me go fetch her papers, are you? Lord Pavus is expecting us inside."

The sentinel pushed the letter back into his hands and tilted his head towards the hall.

"Just go."

She gripped Stitches just as tightly as he held her to support himself, moving awkwardly towards one of the large doors in the bustling hall.

"Geoffrey!" Lord Pavus called out to him, pushing through the crowd. Almira looked up at Stitches, who was pursing his lips, a peeved expression on his face.

"That's my given name," he whispered, frowning. "He refuses to call us by our nicknames. Probably in retaliation for some past asshattery of ours…" He shot her a sideways glance. "Don't ever call me that, deal?"

"Have you received any word?" Lord Pavus asked while his eyes searched the hall for any relevant activity.

"None. We heard the same as everyone else."

"Blasted Blights," he grumbled. "We'll have to watch Cullen and Leliana like hawks for any incoming reports, then," he decided. He stopped mid turn. "And who is this?" He stared down at Almira. "I've seen you hanging about the Chargers at the tavern, if I am not mistaken…" He paused. "No, of course I am not mistaken. And why are you here?"

"She's…our mascot," Stitches added quickly.

"Almira Elanan, your Lordness." She began to curtsey awkwardly, causing Stitches to lose his balance and pitch to the side.

"I've heard Lord… or even Lordship. But there is no such thing…" he began, but quickly stopped. "Well…It doesn't really matter right now," he declared in a somber tone.

* * *

Almira sat back and stared at the window for a long time, watching as the light flooding the windows in the hall changed from clear, to gold, into twilight, and finally splintered into tears. Stitches remained seated beside her. He'd pat her back consolingly anytime she leaned forward and brought her hands over her face, attempting to mask her despair. As the day gradually faded and no news arrived, he began to look as forlorn as she. They waited, in heavy silence. Lord Pavus would rapidly dart past them, occasionally tossing them little observations:

"Cullen's going to turn into a statue, he's standing so still out there."

"Did you see Leliana anywhere? She was by my side just minutes ago…"

"I can't believe these many mages know the Chant by heart! Look at them all!"

"Contact the Blades of Hessarian, indeed…It's more likely those rustics will pluck and roast any ravens Josephine and Leliana send their way!"

But at the end, he always concluded in the same disheartening way.

"No news yet, I fear."

* * *

Almira stirred from her uneasy slumber with a start. Stitches was shaking her shoulder.

"Something's happening."

Almost as soon as he uttered those words, Lord Pavus erupted from the doorway, striding towards the hall's entrance.

"Inquisition messenger," he stated hurriedly, dashing by. "Follow me."

Stitches glanced down at his leg, still swollen.

"You go," he told her. "Then come back and let me know, all right? I'll be right here. Go!"

She ran towards Lord Pavus, stepping right behind him as he made his way imposingly through the crowd, his head held up high as they rushed to the gate. Several guards held the crowd at bay, but parted respectfully to allow Lord Pavus passage. Almira halted, biting her lip. He, however, glanced back, and seeing her standing despondently before the guards, beckoned her impatiently.

"Well, come on!"

Behind the string of guards lining the holding room off the main gates, Commander Cullen appeared absorbed in a newly received missive. Before anyone could inquire or observe his reaction to the words, he dropped his arms, relief evident in his face.

"She's alive," he exhaled audibly, speaking to Nightingale and Lady Montilyet, who had crowded around him. "She has been escorted to our forces south by a border patrol from Highever that answered the distress signal."

"Praise the Maker," Nightingale whispered.

She signaled one of her agents.

"Inform Mother Giselle and have her make the announcement immediately," she ordered.

"Cullen," Lord Pavus called out. "Any other details? What about the others?"

The Commander glanced down at the note, his expression clouding once more.

"This is a short report—it only mentions the Inquisitor at this time. Nothing else."

"Any chance they could all be traveling with Evelyn?" he wondered, glancing at the others.

"I honestly can't say. From what I was able to gather, the Qunari scouts underestimated the Venatori numbers…and locations. There were Venatori on the shore, which had been expected, but also farther inland."

Almira froze.

"I have to admit I am shocked at the appalling intelligence this particular unit ran! Are we sure these are elite Qunari operatives? If they were to run all operations as shoddily as they did this one, all the magistrates in Minrathous would be building their vacation homes in the Seheron at long last! I wish I had been asked to go. I should be involved in any missions concerning Venatori! This might have gone very differently had I been there!" Lord Pavus rubbed his temples.

"All we can do is wait for the next report," Lady Montilyet said sadly, staring past the gates.

"At least Evelyn is no longer embroiled in this mess. That should make you—" Lord Pavus stared at her for a moment, a look akin to realization dawning upon him.

"Oh, dear. Blackwall…?"

She said nothing and looked down.

Loud cheers erupted inside the fortress behind them.

"Do not give up hope," Nightingale attempted to console them. "Do not despair."

"I can do without the platitudes, Sister Spymaster," Lord Pavus sulked.

"No, no…She is right. Evelyn is alive... and you know she will not leave anyone behind," Lady Montilyet concluded fervently. "No matter how dire the situation… no matter what the odds."

"I know," Lord Pavus finally retorted with a sigh. "It's just…frustrating. I wish there was more we could do right now."

"I'd like to wait here," Lady Montilyet announced, taking in the bleak, stark room.

"Why don't you come back in—it's too cold," Nightingale suggested. "We'll instruct the messengers to come straight to the hall—"

"No," Lady Montilyet declared stubbornly. "I want to be informed of any developments as soon as possible." She directed her attention to an assistant. "Can you please fetch the clipboard in my office—I'll be conducting my business from here—for now." She staked a spot at a table ordinarily used to process newcomers to the fortress. She sat down and tapped the tabletop pensively. "I need to compose a letter of thanks to Teyrn Cousland. It was fortuitous his guards were so close by and able to respond."

"Josie," Nightingale said gently, leaning down and putting a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

"I'd be glad to keep you company. I doubt I'll be getting much sleep tonight," Lord Pavus commiserated.

He glanced at Almira, who watched everything speechless, her heart heavy.

"I suppose you want to join us?" he asked.

She nodded anxiously.

"Very well," he relented. "Go get Geoffrey. "

She wove through the dispersing, cheering crowd, many remaining behind to offer a prayer of gratitude.

Almira was thankful the Inquisitor had survived.

In her own way, she felt that if it hadn't been for the Inquisitor, she wouldn't have finally found a home, there, in Skyhold. Or met Krem. But although she did feel glad the Inquisitor was alive, it didn't alleviate the dread that weighed in her chest, causing her to occasionally gasp for air as if she were suffocating.

* * *

The first day progressed uneventfully.

The second day was perhaps the worst.

The messenger arrived, breathless, foisting his letter in Commander Cullen's hand before he even dismounted his horse.

Except for Almira and Stitches, who remained quietly in a corner hoping not to cause any disturbances in order to remain privy to everything, the others had all circled him, hungry for news, watching him for the smallest reactions that would betray the contents of what his eyes raced through.

"It's from Evelyn," he announced. He raised his eyes to Nightingale and Lady Montilyet after a few moments of perusing the letter. "We need to assemble in the War Room."

At Lady Montilyet's perplexed expression, he added a vague, "To discuss a course of action regarding the alliance…or rather…lack of…"

"Cullen, I do not believe you to be an intentionally cruel man, but could you please enlighten us regarding the fate of the Chargers and the others?" Lord Pavus intervened.

The Commander glanced down at the letter.

"Cassandra is with her," he revealed.

Lord Pavus gestured towards the letter.

"May I?"

"It's not an official report," Commander Cullen quickly explained, drawing the letter closer to himself. "Evelyn says much of what we already knew: that the mission went awry when a greater number of Venatori appeared at the shore. She said they engaged in heavy combat. They split up to seek aid from the forces stationed at the camp nearby, but found them already engaged in a second front. With the camp destroyed, they were unable to regroup as planned. As I said, Cassandra is with her— and they are seeking to locate and rejoin the others once our forces have finished combing through the region."

"We always establish a neutral, alternative rendez-vous point in the event such things should happen," Stitches interrupted, confused. "I am sure our Communications Officer would have coordinated that with the Inquisitor."

Almira watched as Commander Cullen hesitated.

"She did go… No one was there when she arrived. She and Cassandra waited for several hours before firing a distress signal towards Highever's western border."

Almira turned to look at Stitches trying to determine how to react.

"What does it mean?" she leaned closer to him and asked in a whisper.

He did not reply and stared down at his hands instead.

"It could mean a great many things," Lord Pavus stated with unaccustomed helpfulness. "And we shouldn't read much into it. Plans must be adapted constantly in such volatile circumstances."

"Or it could mean they are all dead," Stitches said bitterly.

Almira's hand flew over her mouth, anguish surfacing in her eyes.

"We have never failed to regroup at a rendez-vous point," Stitches argued. "Something is very wrong!"

Lord Pavus would not hear it.

"Just because you never have before, doesn't mean it couldn't happen. I refuse to entertain such lugubrious thoughts until I have proper evidence—and neither should any of you!" he admonished them all warningly.

Almira wandered aimlessly into the courtyard soon after, escaping the heated discussions erupting at the gates. Conjectures, suppositions... She couldn't follow any of it. Instead, she headed towards the dispensary.

After one look at Almira, as she emerged at the door, pale and sickly, her father rushed out from behind his counter. He gathered her in his arms, guarding her in his embrace, his only daughter, always his little one, and attempted to soothe her pain as well as he could. He closed his eyes as the sobs wracked her small frame, filling the room with her grief.

"Baba," she uttered, in a tearful voice, burying her face in his chest.

He held her helplessly; there was nothing he could do to make it all better. Nothing in his arsenal at the dispensary— no herbs, potions, poultices, or compounded solutions— held the cure to healing a broken heart.


	43. What the Eyes Can't See (Part XIII)

"Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul  
And sings the tune without the words  
And never stops at all."  
― Emily Dickinson

* * *

On the fourth day news of the Inquisitor's arrival, announced for the following night, reached them. There still were no updates regarding the Chargers. Almira held her stubborn vigil at the gates, along with Stitches. Lord Pavus and the others had been summoned to the War Room and she wondered if engaging one's efforts and energy elsewhere would be better than remaining in that holding room, in an interminable wait…And yet, she couldn't make herself leave for more than a few moments at a time. She thought of the job she no longer had, since she hadn't reported in for several days.

"Why don't you go back to your quarters?" one of the gate guards suggested, surprised at always finding at least one of them at their relentless watch during his shifts. "The messenger already came today—nothing else will be arriving," he explained.

Stitches glanced impassively at Almira.

"Hot tea?" he suggested, ignoring the guard.

"Yes," she agreed. "I'll be right back."

* * *

The guard was wrong.

One of the captains arrived at the gate early in the evening.

"I have a report for Commander Cullen," the man said imposingly, dismounting from his horse. A soldier was dispatched towards the main hall, running as quickly as his legs could carry him.

The captain acknowledged them with a curt nod as he removed his visor and gave the reins of his horse to a groom.

"Where you riding in from?" the head guard asked.

"Gherien's Pass," the man announced.

"Isn't that where the Inquisitor is right now?" the head guard asked interestedly.

"She sent me here," he declared.

Almira sought Stitches' hand and squeezed it tightly.

They all waited in awkward silence, watching as the captain engaged in mundane tasks: he drank some water, entertained some small talk about the weather at the foot of the mountain, and little else of any interest. It felt like an eternity before Commander Cullen appeared at the gates.

"Captain Fielding," he said formally.

"Commander!" he saluted stiffly.

"Let us go somewhere we can talk,"

"No need, Commander. My message is not of a confidential nature per her Worship's instructions."

Both Almira and Stitches sat up, clasping each other's hands.

They watched as the man unfurled a sheet of parchment.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan is delaying her return to Skyhold by two days to afford members of her party time to rejoin her."

Almira leapt up, tugging Stitches' arm over her shoulder.

"She has requisitioned a healer escort to be dispatched, as there are injured."

She felt Stitches' arm tense.

"She has been contacted by the leader of the Chargers, the Iron Bull, and it is at his behest that she is delaying her arrival and requesting the healer."

Stitches smiled broadly at Almira. She felt a flutter of hope, but her worries still hadn't dissipated.

"Very well, Captain. I will make the appropriate arrangements," Commander Cullen stated.

"Does your report include a roster?" Stitches ventured.

The man bristled at being spoken to out of turn.

"It's all right; he is one of the Chargers," the Commander quickly explained, browsing over the report. "And no—it doesn't. The Inquisitor was rejoined by Blackwall and Varric and contacted by Bull…But there is nothing here regarding the Chargers other than a request for healer assistance."

Almira pat Stitches' arm. She knew he was cursing himself for not being able to be there.

"Any casualties?" he asked more directly.

"It doesn't say," the Commander told them earnestly.

* * *

Almira waited the two longest days of her life, it felt.

She leaned over the ramparts' walls, trying to look farther down the road leading up to Skyhold. The tower sentinels had told her to scram after she kept calling out to them every few minutes to ask whether they saw any activity. She found herself distracted and unable to concentrate on anything. It was just as well: she had ample time on her hands, since she was unemployed.

* * *

The activity in the tower's guard house indicated to her that something significant was unfurling beyond the fortress' walls. She raced to the ramparts once more and was able to see, in the distance, a small cloud rising over the road.

"The Inquisitor!" someone called down.

The fortress leapt into activity like a well oiled machine. As she saw riders approach ahead, the Inquisition's banners bold and clearly visible from a distance, she also saw the lines of soldiers assembling behind her in the courtyard. The riders' armor glistened in the clear sunlight, their standards bobbing alongside them like gold scepters.

Almira felt at once impatient and nervous, dreading and hoping, her senses in turmoil. It wasn't until the troops approached the gates that the soldiers barked at her to get off the ramparts and go to the courtyard like everyone else. She wouldn't be able to see anything, she fretted, skulking down the stairs.

She wouldn't be able to see him.

* * *

 

She hated everyone right then. More specifically, everyone who had come to gape at the Inquisitor and the soldiers arriving because she was sure they were all just there for the excitement and pageantry. She elbowed a path, jumped up and down in the crowd, her neck stretched taut and her eyes keenly seeking familiar faces. When she finally pushed herself to the front of the line, she met with mounted Inquisition soldiers, the horses snorting, raking their hooves over the cobblestone and shaking their heads, eager to be stabled after their trek up the mountain. She dove once more into the mass of people and traveled back towards the gates, towards the main courtyard. Only then did her eyes finally glimpse a familiar sight.

It was the Iron Bull—she could see his large back half covered with inky black markings as he gesticulated animatedly.

"—to the quartermaster," he completed, as she approached, her speed increasing with every step. "So just file it tomorrow and let's call it a day."

"What about our drinks?" she heard Skinner's unmistakable accent.

"In good time," Bull complained. "Give a man time to take care of his business first!"

She watched as Lord Pavus hurriedly approached the group from the opposite direction.

"And here comes the man's business," Dalish teased, and Almira heard hearty laughter erupt as Bull grumbled at them.

Almira climbed up the training ring's fence to see better. She spotted Stitches, already there, standing beside Dalish.

"If you're not going to help, you shouldn't get in the way!" she overheard her say crossly to him as he smiled knowingly. "Isn't it enough that I have to haul all this equipment, now I have to haul your incapacitated arse up the stairs?"

She winced, still searching the group, doing her headcount, her heart pounding, until her eyes rested on the familiar armor she knew so well, its wearer standing with his back turned to her.

_Krem. He is alive._

She slipped down from her vantage point, her legs suddenly weak, unsteady, from the rush of emotion. Taking in a deep, shaky breath she began to maneuver through the row of people again, ignoring the protests and cries of surprise as she determinedly elbowed and pushed the bodies blocking her aside until she broke through to the front.

Krem had been speaking to someone, his brow furrowed, until he caught sight of Almira standing among the crowd. His expression softened and he excused himself. She watched with a mix of gratitude and relief as he smiled warmly at her. She noticed him glance down while reaching into his armor, in deep concentration as he appeared to be rummaging for something until he brought his hand up again.

He extended something towards her: it was the checkered cloth she had given him, billowing in the slight breeze.

Almira raced forth, crashing into him, holding him tightly to assure herself that he was real, truly there.

_He came back to me. He's here. He's safe._

She felt his large arms enfold her and clasp her just as tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his face buried in her red hair; and in that way they remained, for a while, long after most people had left the courtyard.


	44. What the Eyes Can't See (Part XIV)

"What the body might guess,

what the hand requests,

what language assumes

becomes amulet"

-"Scene" by Maxine Chernoff

* * *

"We beat a retreat, but by then the Venatori had flooded the shore and attacked the dreadnaught. We had no way to cross back. We tried to get aid from the camp, but it had been trounced. Blackwall and Varric narrowly escaped the onslaught when they were sent off for aid before we reached them. It was a mess—at one point Gatts and Bull tried to locate survivors and that's when they were ambushed—Seeker Pentaghast and the Inquisitor couldn't find them. I think we were all walking in circles around each other for a couple days there," Krem told Almira as they climbed up the stairwell together.

"Why did you send for a healer?" she puzzled.

"The healer was mostly for Rocky," he explained, waiting at the landing and watching her lug one of his smaller packs up the flight of stairs. "Nasty gash from a fall—from his hip down his thigh. Was getting infected. They had a mage who knew some healing spells at the camp we ended up at, but that doesn't do much for dwarves."

"Will he be all right?" she ask, concerned, setting the pack down before his door.

"The fever broke this morning thanks to the healer the Inquisitor sent to the camp, and now that he's back here, I'm sure he will recover just fine."

"Baba's unguents are the best!" she reminded him.

"That, they are!" he laughed, reaching into his pocket for the key.

"And what happened to the rendez-vous point? Why didn't you meet there"

"Oh, that…" Krem pressed his lips. "We are firing Grim as Communications Officer. It was funny when it was just us, Chargers, but not so amusing now that we have to deal with the Inquisition…"

"What?"

"Let's just say that when you have three different locations named Westham, Westdam, and Westsham, you need to be able to articulate the intended one clearly," he sighed, stepping into the fairly orderly room. "I don't know what I want more right now: a bath, food, or some sleep!"

"Everything!" she told him. "Go take a bath and I will get you food!" she declared eagerly.

"I was jo—"

"Here!" she handed him his wash bucket. "What do you want to eat? I'll fetch it for you while you bathe!" she announced. "Anything you'd like!"

He chuckled, taking the bucket and reaching for a fresh towel. He could tell, from her determined expression that she meant business.

"Whatever is for dinner at the mess hall— something hot. Maybe some meat. If there's a roast…or even some stew."

"Yes, Lieutenant!" she saluted him goofily as he flung the towel over his shoulder and stepped out into the hallway.

* * *

He was still rubbing the towel over his damp hair when he breezed back into the room. He immediately paused at the entrance, noting that there was no food whatsoever awaiting him and that his so-called helpful helper was, instead, sleeping soundly in his bed. He snorted and shook his head, tossing his dirty clothes in a basket in the corner after placing his little wooden turtle safely on the bookshelf.

"Almira," he said loudly, "Where's my food?" he teased.

She mumbled something unintelligible and curled under the covers, squeezing his pillow tighter.

He had to admit he liked the sight of her in his bed.

 _I'll just wake her up when I get back_ , he decided, stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind him carefully.

* * *

 

"Feels good to be back," Krem said, rubbing his hands before the crock of stew. "Where's everyone else?" he asked, looking around the empty table ordinarily surrounded with Chargers.

"Where else? Exhausted. Grim's down for the count, as are Jasper and Slim. Skinner said no one should go looking for her until tomorrow night because she would be unconscious," Dalish snickered.

"Aren't you tired? Isn't it time for you to go to bed?" Stitches bugged her, resting his chin over his fist watching her eat. "Let's GO!" he urged her impatiently.

Dalish gave Krem a sigh of resignation before plunging her spoon into her stew.

"Anyone check on Rocky?" he asked them, laying a napkin over his lap.

"I did earlier— checked on his bandages. Chief popped in just a little while ago—said he looked like shit," Stitches told him.

"Which he then followed up by saying that it was a good thing, because that's what Rocky normally looks like," Dalish added with a smirk.

He listened to their banter throughout the meal, noticing that despite the name-calling and teasing, Stitches and Dalish clasped each other's hand beneath the table the whole time.

* * *

"Almira," Krem whispered, leaning over her, shaking her shoulder lightly. "Almira, wake up. I have to get you home."

Her eyes fluttered open for a moment and tried to focus on his face. She offered him a sleepy smile and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him into the bed. He toppled over her awkwardly.

He pushed himself up.

"Come on, lazy bones—your father is waiting."

She rolled towards him.

"Not tonight—he's at the infirmary supporting post-surgery recovery through tomorrow afternoon," she said in a soft voice, stretching lazily.

"Let's go," he insisted, clapping his hands together.

He watched her rebel by settling down further beneath the covers.

"Can't I stay?…I'm so tired," she yawned. "I think this is the first time I've actually slept for more than an hour or two in days," she whined.

"I can't help it if you party so hard—" he began teasing her.

"What party?" she retorted as she furrowed her brow. "I was out of my mind with worry. Stitches and I waited at the gates the whole time for news. First, the Inquisitor went missing, then no one knew what happened to the Chargers, then a letter arrived asking for a healer immediately. The worst days of my life!" she huffed, turning away and hunkering down with the pillow.

"What do you mean, you waited at the gates?"

"Six days—" she began, peering over her shoulder, but then paused. "No—five. Today I was on the ramparts."

"So you went and waited for news of us in the cold after working all day?" he asked incredulously.

She hesitated.

"No," she said, wincing guiltily. "I missed work because I couldn't take the chance of not being there if any news arrived…I need to find a new job again," she sighed. "But the good news is we can sleep in tomorrow!"

Krem felt slightly lightheaded.

"Almira," he censured her gently, sitting beside her on the bed. "You waited out at the gates for news all those days?" he marveled, not removing his eyes from her.

"Of course…I was waiting. For you," she corrected him.

He contemplated her with surging affection.

"You crazy girl," he whispered. "Sitting out in the cold like that…" He brushed his hand over her cheek.

"I was so scared, Krem," she seized his hand. "It's all because of that stupid dream!" she growled, sitting up agitatedly. "Teeth kept falling and Baba said something bad was going to happen to someone close to me, because, you know, my Nuna Salandris was Eran'ghilan, and I couldn't even finish my breakfast— and they were breakfast cakes, too—with sprinkled elfroot seeds in the batter, makes it taste crunchy—so you know I was upset if I couldn't eat them, and he was going to ask Master Adan to check him, and then when you were departing I thought: did I curse Krem? And I said, you have to make it better Almira, so I made you promise to bring back—"

He couldn't stand it any longer and hugged her. He had no idea what she was going on about, babbling on and on about falling teeth, and someone called Nuna, and breakfast cakes…it was a heck of a story, he was sure, but she'd have to tell it to him properly tomorrow.

"Almira…It's all right," he told her, his hand patting her head soothingly. "I'm here. I'm fine. It's all over," he reassured her.

He settled into the bed, pulling the covers over his legs as Almira moved over to make room.

"Come on—let's get some rest, you loon."

She snuggled close to him, alluringly warm and soft, smelling so good— a hint of vandal aria wafted from her hair.

"Good night," she whispered.

He grinned and kissed her gingerly on the forehead.

"Good night," he replied.

She giggled and returned the kiss, also on his forehead.

"Good night," she said in a deep voice.

"You are a brat," he tickled her.

He felt his pulse quicken as she wiggled and squealed, her enticing bosom brushing against him.

"Now… go to sleep!" he said somewhat distractedly.

 _Well…maybe just one more little kiss_ , he thought, giving her a light peck on the cheek. Upon touching her skin, he felt a jolt of desire course through him. He lingered longer than intended.

"Good night!" he said a bit too loudly, moving towards his side of the bed.

She grasped his arm.

"Wait."

She planted a kiss on his cheek, tantalizing and feathery. "Good night," she murmured sultrily.

"Good night," he said again, lightly kissing her lips.

"Good night," she agreed, kissing his lips slowly, once… twice…

* * *

It wasn't until she had straddled him and his hands were halfway up her skirt that Krem realized that they could very well be headed for disaster.

"Almira," he called to her breathlessly. "Are you  _sure_?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" she sighed, smiling.

He was having difficulty forming any coherent thoughts.

"Remember what I told you about myself," he insisted. "Are you all right with it? Are you  _certain_?—I don't want you to regret this," he said.

 _I couldn't bear it. I just want there to be an "us," in any way possible_ , he thought.

She opened her large green eyes and peered at him.

"Well, I have to admit, this is all a bit new to me," she said pensively. "You know, since I've never done this with—"

He braced himself for the one thing he didn't want to hear that moment, feeling a twinge of sadness.

 _She doesn't mean it in a cruel way_ , he thought.  _I know that_.

"—the man I love," she completed.

He blinked a few times, completely flabbergasted.

She had wanted to bed him on their first date, had asked him about their children on the second…and now she said she loved him. He embraced her again, holding her firmly, rocking her back and forth gently.

"Almira, you crazy, crazy girl," he repeated, laughing lightly. "You make me so happy. I don't think I could be happier right now," he admitted to her.

Almira arched an eyebrow and raised a finger at him as she pushed herself back up. She crossed her arms over her blouse and slipped it off. She swept her red locks behind her shoulders. She wore no binding.

"Maker…Almira…" he managed to stammer reverently. "I stand corrected," he smiled, pulling her to him.

* * *

 

"Hey," he said quietly. "Is everything all right?" he wondered, grazing his lips over her hair.

She raised her head from his shoulder.

"Our wedding is going to be so beautiful," she whispered dreamily.

He glanced at her in surprise.

She began to laugh.

"Almira! I can only handle so much at once," he rubbed his palm over his forehead.

"I'm just kidding," she grinned, rolling over him. He grinned back at her languidly, savoring the feel of her bare skin over his. "Or  _am_  I?" she cackled.

He slapped her backside playfully.

"I love you," she said, nuzzling his cheek.

"I love you," he murmured, clasping her to him and kissing her tenderly.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There's still a little epilogue because these two-and you, too- deserve it, after everything.


	45. What the Eyes Can't See ~ Epilogue

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”   
-James Baldwin

* * *

 

The little squares of cheesecloth had been cut to size and a respectable pile of dried herbs sat in a bowl. Cole sat patiently in the dispensary's waiting area, now quiet and calm, as he watched the elder elf mash some brittle leaves in a mortar while slowly adding an oily mixture. He liked the elf; like mages, elves tended to see and remember him better, and Elanan enjoyed his company anytime he appeared at the dispensary. When Cole allowed himself to dip into the deep current of his thoughts and mind, he glimpsed his deep reverence for nature, a pride in the knowledge he inherited, and so much love for his daughter Almira.

"So now," Ava began, "we spoon in some herbs and tie the cheesecloth."

"Why so many?" Cole wondered.

"If you put a sachet under your pillow, it keeps the stinging bugs away," Elanan explained, focused on his chore. "Should last over a month, if kept dry."

Ava measured a length of string.

"The soldiers posted at the Hissing Wastes' camps have had a tough time with all the bug bites. Plus, there's the danger of the fever—"

"I say: better to prevent than treat!" Elanan said cheerfully.

"This is a great idea," Ava agreed. "Cole, hold the ends together and when I tie the string around, place a finger upon it so I can tie down the knot."

"But that isn't something I do," he said pensively. "I undo the 'nots' and make things smooth again."

Ava grinned.

"Then how about this? Each knot we make will hold a good wish for the person who receives it?"

Cole smiled.

"I like that better," he said, placing his finger down. "What do we wish for?"

"No bug bites," she winked.

The dispensary door opened. A familiar patient walked in—one of the builders in Ovolir's crew.

"I need Master Adan to give me a refill," the man asked Elanan, extending a small slip to him.

"Master Adan is at the infirmary right now, but perhaps I can help you."

Elanan glanced down at the slip covered in scribbles from behind his spectacles.

"Powdered royal elfroot…Pinch of ardelian salt…Yes, yes… I see," he mumbled to himself. "Give me a minute and I'll do it for you."

"Thank you," the man stated, sitting down in one of the chairs, watching Ava and Cole tie down cloth bundles.

The door was flung open again.

"Baba!" Almira called out excitedly, stepping inside with a pot cradled around her arms. "Look! I got it to bloom!" she said. "Mistress Ve'mal said she didn't think it would bloom this high up in the mountain, but I was able to get it to do so!" She looked around the room at the startled faces. "Hello!"

"Hmmm…Looks good. Healthy. But don't forget to deadhead smaller blooms or the flowers won't be as potent." Her father examined the robust stalk.

"Hi, Almira," Ava called out, positioning the next set of cloths to be tied.

Krem followed behind, another bundle in his hands.

"We brought you food!" Almira exclaimed.

"Did you remember to actually cook the chicken before tossing it in with the grains this time?" her father grumbled, taking a cooking pot from him. "Thank you, Cremiscius."

"Master Elanan," he nodded politely.

"When did you get back?" the elf asked him.

"This morning. We rode in with the Orlesian company from Val Firmin."

"That's good, that's good," the elf said, wiping his hands on his apron, setting the pot down on the counter. "Back for a longer spell this time?"

"A bit. Commander Cullen wants us training a militia that's going to be stationed in Crestwood. It'll be a couple weeks, at least."

"I see. Then come by tomorrow night. I'll make us a Dalish dinner!" Elanan offered.

"Pfff! Don't hold your breath." Almira rolled her eyes. "The Dalish civilization will be restored before that happens."

"Thank you: I'd like that," Krem said graciously. "I'll bring some wine."

"Is she making you do her work for her?" Elanan asked suspiciously.

"No, sir," Krem grinned, grabbing the large flower pot Almira was thrusting into his arms as they left the dispensary.

The builder watched quietly as they left, waiting until they were farther away before addressing Elanan.

"Is your daughter involved with that…person?"

Elanan nodded, stepping back behind the counter and perusing the shelves for ingredients.

"You know…he's not really a man," he said with a hint of malice.

Elanan raised his eyebrows. Cole made as if to speak, but Ava placed a hand on his arm.

"I like to think the measure of a man is determined by his character."

"I would never let my daughter—"

"Then you would have no daughter. She would run away or harden her heart to you," Elanan said calmly, mixing several reagents in a bowl. "I like having a daughter, so I don't tell her what to do…regarding these matters, at least. I don't bother her, and now I have a daughter… and a son. It's very simple. Dalish arithmetic." Elanan tipped the bowl into a small container and tapped it until all the powder slipped out. "Here is your prescription. Have a good day!" he said amiably.

The man looked around embarrassedly and scurried out.

"You were far nicer than I would have been," Ava mumbled, casting a glare at the closed door as she tossed some of her sachets in a basket.

"The old is known and what is known becomes what is right if only out of habit. Challenges invite fear, never opportunity…Must stay on the familiar, beaten path," Cole stated. "It's a hard way to be."

They all nodded pensively and Cole sighed.

"Ava? I am stuck," he stated helplessly, trying to shake a sachet knot off his finger.

* * *

Krem liked it best when the Chargers arrived during the day, and he could go looking for Almira in the gardens, where she was working for Elan Ve'mal. She had a knack for gardening, it turned out, and the herbologist had been impressed with how knowledgeable she was of the rarest specimens and how to properly care for them.

"Ha! All those years tramping through swamps finally paying off!" She'd jumped for joy when she'd been offered the job.

He liked finding her crouching over her beds of sprouts, the wide brimmed hat he'd picked up for her on one of his trips on her head, her nose lightly freckled from the sunshine. She enjoyed showing him around the grounds, proudly pointing out to him what had bloomed, what had been planted, what she had harvested. He liked how she clasped his hand in hers as she walked with him and he enjoyed stealing furtive kisses behind bushes and trees. He found it devastatingly endearing how she introduced him to her fellow gardeners.

"This is my beloved, Cremiscius Aclassi. He's the Chargers' Lieutenant," she'd state proudly.

It didn't matter that he was introduced to the same patient souls again and again.

She was making him carry her on piggy back across the courtyard just then.

"Where to?" he wondered.

"I need to drop off these fresh cuttings at the infirmary, then I have to stow away my tools in the gardening shed, and then… I am done!"

"What would you like to do after that?"

"You!" she shouted.

A few shocked heads turned to look at them as they passed by.

"Sssh! Maker, Almira!" he shushed her, amused.

"Pick up the pace, Aclassi!" she commanded, pointing forward.

"My pack weighs less," he teased.

He laughed as she bit him lightly on the ear.

"I'm just glad you are home!" she sighed contentedly, placing a kiss on his neck.

And he agreed.

He was finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I thought a James Baldwin quote was perfect for the final chapter in this romance. He was talking about race and sexuality way before it was deemed an appropriate topic, when people were still very much marginalized and penalized for being who they are. Thank you for the comments, support, and enthusiasm you fantastic people awarded me with while I wrote this story arc. It was so inspiring, generous...and sweet! May hugs and cookies be plentiful to you all when you need them most! ;-)


	46. For the Glory! (Part I)

"Victory is fleeting.

Losing is forever."

-Billie Jean King

* * *

It started innocently enough.

They had all been exiting the cave, the stone walls sweating moisture, sea spray soaking the stacked pillars of rock leading the way down to the pebbly shore. There was nary a break in the grey that blanketed the horizon.

"Another storm approaches. It would be best if we made our way back to the camp," Solas observed, directing his gaze over the sea.

"Right. Because I would hate to get wet!" Varric complained, wringing out the hem of his tunic.

"You should have worn something more practical," Bull offered. "It is called the Storm Coast, after all."

"I hardly think you should be dispensing fashion advice," he quipped back, shooting Bull's purple and green striped pantaloons an indignant glance.

"They might not be much to look at, but they are very comfortable. Things stay loose and well ventilated- Well...Most of the time," Bull began, peering down at the deflated pants, weighed down with water.

"Let's head back up- we'll hit the camp in about two and half miles," Evelyn pointed to the steep hill rising before them.

They all groaned mildly. Blackwall led the way, seeking out a trail that would be less inclement to trek up.

"You know, I'm surprised Dorian hasn't done something about those pants yet," Varric teased as they began their climb.

"He tried," Bull stated.

"Really?" Evelyn interjected, surprised.

"And?" Varric goaded him.

"When Dorian told me to get rid of these pants, I did," Bull began.

"What do you mean?" Solas asked confusedly.

"Just that: he said, 'You really should wear something that doesn't look ransacked off a court jester—do get rid of those,' and I said, 'You are asking me to take off my pants? Right away.'" Bull shrugged. "So I dropped them down right there. We were standing in the middle of the courtyard in Skyhold."

"No!" Varric cried delightedly.

"Then he began yelling for me to put them back on, so I did. And that was the end of that," Bull smiled smugly as Evelyn and Varric laughed. Even Solas grinned.

Only Blackwall remained silent, never staring back, only marching forward.

Evelyn watched him negotiate the next climb over a pile of loose rocks, his hands seeking purchase on a ledge past a boulder before he hauled himself up and across the top. She furrowed her brows.

"It's slippery," Solas cautioned, turning back to them, heavy droplets of rain beginning to splash on the dirt trail.

"What's up with Hero?" Varric said softly, tilting his head towards Blackwall.

"Cassandra," Evelyn whispered back, waiting for Bull to finish climbing. "They had a bit of a nasty exchange back at Skyhold before we left."

"You mean he tried to be helpful-"

"-And she shut him down. Yes," Evelyn nodded.

"I should let him know, 'She glares because she cares,'" he winked.

Evelyn smirked.

"It's true!" Varric eyes grew wide. "I speak from personal experience!"

He rested Bianca over his shoulder and followed Evelyn over the first row of rocks.

They rejoined the others at the top of the hill, the terrain finally flatter. They continued conversing among each other, the lightheartedness gradually giving way to the missives they had intercepted and the gloomy portents they contained. Blackwall, however, remained steadfast in his silence.

In the distance, despite the rain that had begun to fall in earnest, they could glimpse the golden glint of the Inquisition's banner indicating a path below. A patrol wearing the deep blue of the Blades of Hessarian flanked them as they reached the main road.

"Go ahead," the Inquisitor waved them on. "Let them know we are arriving," she instructed.

"I hope they have a good fire going for us," Varric shivered.

"And something hot to eat," Solas added.

Evelyn nodded in approval.

"I could go for a little firewater myself," Bull added.

Blackwall said nothing.

Varric exhaled heavily.

"All right, Hero, what do we talk about?" he called out.

They watched as the burly dark haired figure finally stopped and turned to face them.

"What do you mean?" he asked sullenly.

"You don't want talk about yourself, I can respect that. So what do we talk about, then?"

An uncomfortable silence befell the group as they finally caught up with him as he stood before the bend in the road that would lead them to the Blades of Hessarian's fortress. He appeared lost in thought for a moment before stating:

"I don't suppose you follow jousting?" he asked casually.

"I'm a Free Marcher, remember? We invented jousting!" Varric exclaimed enthusiastically.

"That's not actually true, you know," Blackwell said skeptically as they crossed the gates.

"It is! Before us, no one ever thought to push people off things with large sticks. Historical fact!" Varric stated, raising a finger into the air.

"Well, are we referring to real jousting? We are referring to Stechen, right? Not that prancing around you Kirkwallers like so much?" Blackwall said spiritedly.

Varric reeled around, as Solas and Bull stared in surprise.

"You are way off your mark. I'll have you know Rennen takes skill and finesse, things you folks from Markham lack…"

It was downhill from there.

* * *

The rain pummeled the roof of the main cabin in the fortress, the drumming sound so vigorous it drowned out conversation until it gradually tapered off to a lighter pelting. Lightning flashed unpleasantly close by. They sat around the large fireplace, Evelyn having eschewed the formality of a dining table earlier, much to the Inquisition liaison's chagrin.

"I was hoping to instill some sense of decorum and occasion in these backwater dwellers," the woman sniffed, confiding in her as she eyed the  trophy heads of mountain rams around the room contemptuously. An earthy, steamy scent drifted from another corner of the room, where a few wet Mabari had sought shelter from the rain. The beasts had spread themselves comfortably over the ground, some twitching and making whining sounds as they slept soundly.

_Fereldans do love their Mabaris_ , Evelyn grinned discreetly, sympathizing briefly with her harried representative.

"Another time, perhaps," she replied, amused, making a mental note to send Dorian and Vivienne there in the future; the woman would regret it deeply, she was sure. Since she had rejoined her party, after changing into a dry set of clothes and settling beside them with her heavy bowl of...she dared not ask, lest she lose her appetite...she had heard nothing else but talk about jousting, with Varric and Blackwall trying to one up each other with their knowledge of the sport... and boasting.

"I've been informed my grasp of jousting is sorely lacking," Solas greeted her with a miffed air.

"You listen to me, Chuckles, and you'll learn all you need to know," Varric pat his arm reassuringly as he rose to fetch another bowl of food.

"So is mine, apparently. And get this: I was being sarcastic about it and they didn't even care," Bull grumbled. "This fort doesn't have enough booze to make it better," he joked, swilling his almost empty flask.

"All right!" Blackwall resumed, once Varric returned, livelier than she had seen him in a while. "Greatest knight in history... My money's on Lady Honorine Chastaine," he mused, rubbing his beard. "No one's ever come close to unhorsing more riders than her. I've seen her joust live, and I have to tell you, up close, she has magnificent... technique," he concluded.

"Her victory in the grand tourney of Tantervale is pretty legendary," Varric conceded, " but I'd have to go with Revata. Winning three consecutive grand tourneys! Who does that?"

He turned to Evelyn, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"Hey, you know they're holding a grand tourney in Markham soon. I think we should all go. Inquisition road trip!" he cheered.

"There's got to be... trouble or something up near Markham," Blackwall cast her a beckoning glance.

" No," Evelyn quickly replied, spooning food into her mouth.

"I'll talk to Josephine, I bet she could pull some strings," Varric said encouragingly.

"I would like to see Lady Chastaine win again in person..." Blackwell sighed.

"You mean watch Revata shove her ass off a horse," Varric smirked provocatively.

They barely noticed Evelyn spooning food into her mouth faster.

"Why did you say 'no' so quickly, may I ask?" Varric turned to her again.

"These grand tourneys are great fun," Blackwall added.

"It would give us a much needed opportunity to unwind," Varric went on.

"I do admit, I am intrigued," Solas stated, setting his bowl aside.

"Winning while barely clinging to your horse may count, but it's not exactly the stuff of legends, is it?" Blackwall insisted.

"That," Varric said gravely, tapping the ground with his finger, "depends entirely on who's writing the legend, Hero."

Blackwall puffed loudly.

"You can't really think Revata is a better knight than Honorine Chastaine? Her record's flawless. Four hundred jousts, never unseated, no one's ever come close to it!"

"Oh, she's easily the most skilled. That's a fact. It's just... scrappy is better than flawless. I like heroes who try their damnedest, even if they fail a lot. It's easy to be valiant when you always win and everything goes your way. There's nothing great in that," Varric leaned in.

He turned again to Evelyn, whose face had turned completely red.

"Won't you reconsider? I'd be glad to explain the rules to you," Varric offered.

"And I'd be happy to correct Varric's explanations," Blackwall quickly followed.

"What is there to explain about the statement 'Revata is the best?'" Varric asked perplexedly.

"Simple, my friend: it is grossly inaccurate. You mean Honorine-"

Evelyn slammed down her bowl, startling their entire group.

"Enough, the two of you!" she complained. "This is getting out of hand!"

They all fell silent under Evelyn's unexpected outburst.

"The two of you are behaving in a most unbecoming manner," she chastised them. Blackwall's expression clouded and Varric's eyebrows arched up. "Revata, Honorine..." she shook her head. "Listen to the two of you carry on so foolishly..." her voice trailed off.

Varric cleared his throat and Blackwall nodded slowly.

"I'm very sorry-"

"Anyone with an OUNCE of common sense," Evelyn interrupted, incensed, "knows that if there is anyone with the skill and heart to win the grand tourney, it is good Ser Brigid, of Ostwick!" she cried out.

She was drowned out by Varric and Blackwall's loud scoffing and derisive dismissals.

"Since when has Ostwick produced any worthy jousting champions?"

"To be fair, it is quite spectacular watching Ser Brigid joust," Blackwall stated, raising his hands in a conciliatory manner.

Varric grimaced.

"Did you take too many knocks to the head? What are you talking about?"

"He speaks the truth," Evelyn said with satisfaction.

"How often do you get to witness an ass riding a horse?" Blackwall deadpanned.

Varric roared with laughter.

"Good one! Good one!"

"Well, aren't we clever! Give someone from Markham a broomstick and he thinks he can joust!" Evelyn said indignantly.

"To beat Ser Brigid, that's all it takes. I don't think she's ranked in the top ten in several tourneys..." Varric added.

"She was injured a few months back, but she'll be back."

"She'll be knocked _on_ her back, you mean," Blackwall said slyly.

"I have to say, Inquisitor, I never knew you were such a jousting fan..."

"She can't be, if she's rooting for Ser Brigid!" Blackwall teased.

"Could be worse, could be worse..." Varric said in an appeasing tone. "She could be rooting for Chevalier de Mirabeau."

All three groaned.

"Do you know who is the worst, though?" Blackwall went on. "That masked jackass from Antiva-"

"Gaetano Scarandello!" both Varric and Evelyn cried out.

"He'd do better starring in the horse and pony show at the fair..." Blackwall grumbled."He makes a mockery of the sport with all that buffoonery. Those stupid capes, all the nonsense with the flowers... blowing kisses to the audience… I'd be ashamed to support his banner," he stated crossly.

" Don't you just want to slap him around when he goes, 'Today, you have a date, a date with destiny!-Mark my words!'?" Evelyn declaimed loudly, in a mocking tone, as both Varric and Blackwall cackled.

Solas glanced at Bull with alarm. Bull shrugged and quickly tilted his flask back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some dialogue from game--the jousting stuff, the Inquisition road trip, Lady Chastaine and her generous...attributes, and Revata are all from Varric and Blackwall's little exchange. When Varric mentioned road trip, I knew I had to do something about it.
> 
> Sorry for the absence of updates. It's been busy. But this fic is not abandoned. Writing is still cheaper than therapy. ;-)


	47. For the Glory (Part II)

"If you aren't going all the way, why go at all?"

-Joe Namath

* * *

 

"It's in two weeks. What say you?" Varric pleaded his case in the War Room, followed closely by Blackwall.

Evelyn bit her lower lip discreetly and glanced back at her advisers hopefully.

Leliana pretended not to hear the request and peered down at a corner of the war table map with great interest. Cullen stood stolidly, his arms crossed, while Cassandra scowled at them.

"A jousting tourney? When we are in the middle of fighting Corypheus?" Josephine wrung her hands.

"A _grand_ tourney," Blackwall interrupted helpfully.

"We are in a holding pattern right now anyway...We can't move forward until we determine Samson's current whereabouts," Evelyn suggested.

"Isn't there anything the Inquisition can do up in Markham?" Varric insisted. "I am sure there is _something_. It's the Free Marches! Come on, Ruffles! Work with me!"

Josephine looked around helplessly.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I had been planning on setting up meetings with different dignitaries in the Marches. There is sufficient evidence indicating that Venatori operatives have crossed into Ferelden from the Marches and we have been contacted-"

"The meetings would be more successful if the Inquisitor were present," Cassandra stated coolly. "You could travel ahead and negotiate any preliminary terms. I can handle the Inquisitor's security team."

 _Just like that!_ Evelyn thought delightedly.

"Well..." Josephine hesitated, glancing towards Leliana.

"We already have agents gathering intelligence in the area. Might as well take advantage of the tourney, since many leaders will already be in the area," Leliana stated. "I'll stay here, where I'll be of greater help."

Varric, Blackwall, and Evelyn all beamed at each other.

 _Like children_ , Leliana chuckled quietly.

"Won't you come too, Commander?" Evelyn asked eagerly.

Cullen stiffened.

"I was going to offer to put together a detail and security, but Cassandra already—"

"You can be my _personal_ security," Evelyn smiled.

Cullen quickly cleared his throat.

"Oh, come now," Leliana chided them. "You all want to attend the tourney," she teased. "Just go, Cullen. Breege is more than capable and has been ready to stand in for you at a moment's notice; this may be the much needed opportunity she seeks to run things herself—without the stress of a true emergency," she reasoned.

"So who else wants to go?" Josephine wondered.

"Solas, Bull, Dorian, Cole...Vivienne declined. Sera did as well, when she heard Cole was going..." Blackwall explained.

"I believe Vivienne's exact words were: 'One of the grownups has to stay behind to answer the door and explain to Corypheus why no one is home when he comes knocking, darling,'" Varric imitated.

"I have to admit," Josephine began, giddily, "this is rather exciting. I'll secure us all the tickets."

"I can't wait," Varric grinned broadly. "This is going to be great. I get to watch Revata sweep the grand tourney surrounded by good friends..." he said playfully.

Cassandra hissed.

"Amateurs! It's obvious Isaure Pentaghast is going to win," she said calmly, collecting her belongings and striding towards the doorway. As they watched her leave the room, they heard her state firmly, a fist pumping into the air, "For the glory of Nevarra!"

"I'll be damned," Varric scratched his head. "First my novels, now jousting. If we weren't already at each other's throats, I'd say we were destined for each other."

"I haven't attended a jousting tourney in ages," Josephine realized. "I hope I still remember how the rules go-"

"Don't worry, Ambassador, I'll gladly escort you and refresh your memory," Blackwall offered gallantly.

Josephine smiled almost shyly, blinking rapidly.

"I would like that," she said. "We can cheer for your champion, Lady Honorine, together," she said sweetly.

Evelyn watched him puff his chest out proudly.

"And i look forward to cheering for the Antivan jouster—Gaetano Scarandello. He's so much fun to watch! He's so dashing in his outfits! And he's so charming when he tosses flowers to the public! Will you help me cheer him on?" she asked.

Varric and Evelyn pressed their lips as Blackwell stammered for a few moments.

"Yes, of course, my Lady!" he finally managed to say reassuringly.

He then cast both of them a withering glare that did not invite further inquiry.

"How about you, Curly? Who is your money on?"

"I...Well..." Cullen hesitated, rubbing his neck.

"Don't worry," Evelyn teased, "I don't expect you to cheer for Ser Brigid. We won't have a row over that."

"Lady Chastaine," Cullen revealed. "She is a very talented jouster."

"Oh, come on!" Varric cried out. "You lived in Kirkwall! What's up with that?"

"Excellent choice, Commander!" Blackwall cheered.

"I am wondering just exactly which of her abundant talents you are referring to..." Evelyn arched an eyebrow, resting her hand on her waist.

* * *

As they left the War Room all together, talking enthusiastically, Evelyn sidled up to Cullen, brushing her hand lightly over his.

"You know I am only jesting, right?" she whispered. "I'm not really jealous."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good, since there is no reason-"

"-Because Ser Brigid is going to trounce her into the ground!" Evelyn uttered passionately, her fists clenched. "But I'll be right there, ready to receive you in my arms and console you..." she said sweetly, kissing him delicately on the nose. She then jaunted ahead of the group, leaving Cullen behind smirking and shaking his head.


	48. For the Glory! (Part III)

 

"Sports is human life in microcosm."

~ Howard Cosell

* * *

Cole's eyes examined the crowd slowly filling the stands.

"The storm rages, blustering, bruised heart, destruction… destruction, utter and complete, the only thing that will appease the anger that burns—" he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he focused on a specific section of the stands.

Varric turned his head.

"Who is thinking that?"

Cole pointed a few rows down.

"That little boy over there. He was devastated when Ser Elsmoore was defeated at the last tourney."

"Pff. He'd better get used to it," Varric snickered. "Nice seats, huh?" he leaned to the side, addressing Dorian.

"Our own box! I'm very impressed!" Dorian nodded with approval.

"Will Josephine, Cassandra, and the Inquisitor be joining us, Cullen?" Solas wondered.

"Shortly before the tourney begins. They're meeting with the Council—along with some other dignitaries," Cullen responded, his eyes drawn frequently to the large curtained box overlooking the jousting field where Markham's Council and their party would be seated during the event.

"Cassandra is on it—stop worrying and enjoy yourself." Varric shoved a cone-shaped parchment in his face. "Roasted peanuts?"

Cullen swatted the cone away .

"I wish they'd hurry," Blackwall sympathized, the seat next to him conspicuously empty.

"Isn't it lovely to see people coming together peacefully to celebrate and cheer for riders ramming sticks into each other? Such a delightful paradox, you Marchers," Dorian said cheerfully.

"Do you not have anything comparable in Tevinter?" Solas wondered.

"Absolutely: every single social event hosted by my mother…" Dorian mused.

Varric wiped his fingers over his trousers.

"Blackwall, do you have the program?"

"Things won't become interesting until the second round of matches. First will be just—"

"Demonstrations…I KNOW that," Varric sulked, reaching for the program as Blackwall smirked.

Trumpets sounded from the opposite end of the field and Cullen cast yet another concerned glance at the Council's box.

"What happens now?" Solas asked, looking around interestedly at people gradually settling in their seats.

"Traditionally, all the competitors ride out and greet the crowd, pay their respects to any powerful personages at the tourney, and ride off to prepare for their matches. There is usually a demonstration to warm up the crowd and go over the rules," Varric began.

"Are there many rules? Isn't a match won after one of the jousters ousts the other from her or his horse?" Solas pressed on.

Varric and Blackwall exchanged commiserating glances.

"Just pay attention, Chuckles. You'll see."

"In my thoughts, but not here, where does she tarry, can she not have a moment of détente?" Cole recited.

Both Cullen and Blackwall interjected loudly at the same time, urging Cole to stop.

"Oh, that was you?" Cullen stated to Blackwall sheepishly.

"I thought he was prying once more in my…"Blackwall began. "Nevermind."

Another set of trumpets boomed overhead just as their box's curtains stirred and Evelyn emerged, making her way to the seat by Cullen, followed closely by Josephine and finally Cassandra.

"Did we miss anything?" Josephine asked excitedly, squeezing past the front row to sit beside Blackwall.

Blackwall stood up gallantly awaiting her as she made her way.

"Down in front," Bull complained.

"Did we miss the introductions?" Evelyn wondered, surveying the course.

"Not yet," Cullen assured her. "They're going to introduce the jousters any moment now."

Evelyn glanced behind her towards Cassandra, sitting between Varric and Dorian.

"I thought for sure we were going to miss the introductions. It felt like the Councilors wouldn't stop talking even after the trumpets sounded," Evelyn confided.

"At what point did you stop paying attention?" Cassandra asked wryly.

"Was it obvious?' Evelyn winced.

"Well, you were nodding to everything they were saying once the trumpets sounded. I hope you are aware that you agreed to a celebratory dinner after today's tourney," Cassandra warned her.

Ribbing laughter erupted and Evelyn pursed her lips.

"Tarnation," she huffed. "Cullen…would you mind?... accompanying me?..."

"It'll be my pleasure to escort you," he offered graciously. "I would not dream of leaving your side after Ser Brigid's defeat …" he teased.

Evelyn turned indignantly to face him, but just then another set of trumpets blasted loudly and the crowd began to cheer.

They all leaned forward to watch the procession of riders in elegant armor, mounted on horses clad in their cities' colors. A low dust cloud rose from the dirt ground as hooves stomped down the long course, the riders steering their horses past the stands slowly, reveling in the applause and cheers from the crowd. At the front of the procession were various competitors from the Marches. Both Varric and Blackwall clapped vigorously, nodding encouragingly. Cole imitated them, giddily, watching Varric closely for his cues. As Revata passed before their box, as part of Kirkwall's cortege, Varric stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, causing Cassandra to glare at him. Following Kirkwall was Ostwick, and as the jousters approached the stands, Josephine leaned towards Evelyn.

"Inquisitor, please remember that a strong show of favor might be misinterpreted," she cautioned.

Evelyn's eyes were riveted to Ostwick's delegation and Josephine cast a nervous glance to Cullen and Cassandra. To her relief, though, as the jousters passed the box, offering the Inquisitor a polite salute, Evelyn merely clapped and nodded in recognition.

That is, until Ser Brigid, who was holding the rear, rode past the box.

"Hurrah, Ser Brigid!" Evelyn cried out excitedly, leaping to her feet. "For Ostwick!" she cheered at the top of her lungs.

At the sight of the Inquisitor exalting herself, a stunned quiet descended over the stands. Later on, Bull would point out that Josephine all but stopped breathing during the few moments of flustered silence. Evelyn, cognizant of her faux-pas, clapped with more restraint under the scrutiny of the observant crowd.

"Thank you, your Worship!" Ser Brigid beamed, drawing her fist over her chest proudly.

The spell was broken and the crowd roared, cheering and clapping at both the Inquisitor and her favored jousting champion. Evelyn waved a few more times and sought her seat afterwards, a frozen smile over her lips. She peered over at Josephine apologetically.

Josephine pretended to focus very intently on her program.

"Next: jousting tourney damage control…" she mumbled peevishly.

"The crowd seemed to like it," Varric shrugged.

"Makes the boss seem more relatable," Bull explained. "One of them."

"Yes. Just like them. Except with the power to tear open the Fade and close rifts." Dorian twirled the point of his moustache.

Cullen grinned discreetly, speaking to her without averting his eyes from the riders parading past them.

"And how is it that a Circle mage is such a jousting fan? I can't imagine the Circle allowed you to attend matches and tourneys."

She leaned in closer to Cullen, watching the spectacle just as absorbedly.

"Don't forget I am noble-born," she muttered. "I was allowed the occasional outing with my family. And we often attended tourneys," she explained. "I can't help but think of jousting as something cheerful, and festive…At least for me…I think of jousting and I think of…freedom. It is filled with happy memories."

"Are there any elvhen jousters?" Solas interrupted.

"No," Cassandra replied. "Unfortunately, jousting is an expensive sport. One needs to be able to pay for the equipment, gear, upkeep of the horses, all the fees associated with entering the competitions, traveling…" She waved her hand on. "Only the well-born and those who secure patrons can afford to participate in the sport."

"That's a shame," Solas concluded.

"Perhaps you can sponsor Sera," Dorian quipped. "Can you see her riding down the course, shooting her arrows from a horse?" he teased.

"The objective isn't to murder your opponents, Dorian," Bull remarked.

"Then I am afraid you'll never recruit Sera, Solas," Dorian concluded. "It's a doomed endeavor. Think of it no further," he sighed affectedly.

They were all cut off by a sudden roar of approval as the Nevarran delegation entered and Cassandra began to clap enthusiastically.

"Go Nevarra!" she cried out, causing Varric to lean away from her bewilderedly. "May good fortune favor you, Isaure Pentaghast!" she yelled.

A stern-faced woman with a cropped cut and a braid crown pinned into her hair stared back and nodded approvingly.

"Maferath's balls," Varric stammered. "There are more of her?" he gulped, pointing at Cassandra. "Is that your sister?" he puzzled.

Cassandra shook her head distractedly.

"Cousin—thrice removed," she explained. "Go Philippa Pentaghast!" she cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted. They all glanced at the next rider in the Nevarra delegation and she, too, was a tall, athletic brunette, with short hair and a braid crown. "Go Sophine Pentaghast!" she continued.

Varric faced them all with a panicked expression.

"I am never, ever, setting foot in Nevarra," he declared.

"Must be something in the water," Dorian decided, flipping his program around. "This would be far more exciting if everyone competing were shirtless."

"And pantless," Bull added.

Dorian grinned approvingly.

"Yes! And, if that were the case, we could dispense with the jousting altogether!"

He and Bull shared a sly chuckle.

They were subsequently distracted by a small commotion from the course, where a large hoop, papered in what looked like gold parchment was erected between the stands, right where the riders had been emerging from. They all looked around in confusion as the trumpets blasted again and the band led a tight drumroll. The audience watched the large hoop expectantly, whispering and pointing. As the drumroll died down, a gust of smoke erupted and a cloud of doves fluttered into the sky. The parchment sealing the circle tore as a masked rider in resplendent gold armor burst through it. High-pitched shrieks and cries resonated all around them as the crowd went mad for the dapper jouster who paraded slowly around the course, both hands in the air, beckoning the crowd for more adulation and cheers. In a question of seconds, roses littered the course, tossed by adoring fans, something that was undoubtedly making the field master, who waited aside at the end of the course, sulk openly.

"Scarandello!" resounded the many cheers.

The air shimmered with confetti released from the higher levels of the stands. Josephine smiled delightedly, clasping her hands together with excitement.

"Dai, bel Gaetano!" she shouted in her native Antivan. "It's the jouster from Antiva!" she announced, turning to look at all of them gleefully, failing to notice how Blackwall was shifting uncomfortably in his seat and tilting his head from side to side in exasperation.

"Isn't he wonderful!" she gushed to him.

The flamboyant rider stopped halfway down the course and dismounted his horse, swishing his dazzling cape embroidered with golden thread back and forth with great pomp.

"Good people of Markham!" the man began in that melodious accent, turning to and fro to address the spectators.

"Here it comes…" Varric groaned.

"Today," he began theatrically, "you have a date!"

More hysterical cries of 'Scarandello!' filled the air. He basked in the attention, delaying his speech to allow the commotion to die down.

"A date!" he announced. "With destiny!" his voice thundered dramatically.

Josephine cheered and clapped with unrestrained joy.

"So much for not displaying favoritism," Cassandra joked.

Josephine waved her off.

"If I am going to be on damage control, I might as well make it worth my while," she stated between her teeth.

Scarandello then shrewdly cast an exaggerated glance of amazement towards their box.

"Ah, shit," Varric groaned.

Blackwall looked over his shoulder at them with a completely mortified expression.

The Antivan scampered forward, pausing calculatedly before their box, and with a florid courtly bow, flapped his cape aside to magically reveal a small bouquet of scarlet roses clenched in his fist. He extended a rose to Evelyn, one to Cassandra, and finally one to Josephine. When she assailed him with compliments in Antivan, he could barely contain himself with pride, bowing and finally taking her hand between his before daintily kissing it.

"Did Blackwall's beard spontaneously combust yet?" Varric chuckled.

Josephine giggled coyly, terribly amused by the man's antics and flattering display.

He backed away with a hammy grin, blowing affected kisses to her as Blackwall turned a deep shade of crimson.

Before going any further, however, Gaetano Scarandello's eyes alighted upon Blackwall, who had been staring at him so intently. The man's eyebrow sprung up flirtatiously and he flashed him his brightest smile, blowing him a saucy little kiss followed by a wink.

Cole began to channel.

"He loves them manly, their hair lush and thick, the coarse tickle of a beard so arousing when it's nesting between his—"

"Hey, Kid! Have some of this chewy taffy!" Varric quickly thrust a tablet of gooey candy in Cole's mouth.

"I knew it," Bull remarked with satisfaction, watching the Antivan conclude his triumphant introduction.

Dorian, leafing through the program, didn't even look up.

"Oh, please. What gave it away?" he mumbled uninterestedly.

Josephine turned to Blackwall feigning jealousy.

"It seems you caught Scarandello's eye more than I!" she teased. "Lucky you!" she laughed. "You just dashed the hopes of all the damsels at this tourney."

As she proceeded to wave and cheer good-naturedly, Blackwall snuck a backwards glance at them exhibiting utter defeat.

Even Cassandra was having a difficult time keeping a straight face.

A delegation of several cities from Rivain marched past them until it was the hosting city's turn to parade. The crowd's renewed enthusiasm soared when Markham's heroes emerged on the course. Fronting them was none other than Lady Honorine Chastaine. At the sight of her...and her generous physique, Evelyn's eyes widened and she crossed her arms, a mildly miffed look on her face as she examined Cullen's restrained cheering.

"Really, Ser Rutherford," she reproached him.

"I'm amazed she can balance herself on a horse at all," Dorian marveled. "Do they give awards for that?"

"That's just her armor, right? Those can't be real," Bull noted. "Can they?" he puzzled.

Blackwall cleared his throat as he noticed Josephine gaping.

"Oh, come now. Lady Chastaine has proven her valor time and again. She is the best jouster in Thedas."

"I'm surprised you even noticed," Dorian sniffed.

"You aren't helping right now," Cullen grumbled back.

Dorian addressed Varric.

"I have to admit, this outing was a splendid idea! Entertainment everywhere!"

They all fell silent as the jousters from Markham halted before their box.

Lady Honorine bowed respectfully and addressed the Inquisitor.

"Your Worship, you pay us an immense honor by gracing our tourney with your presence. May this afternoon bring you a moment of détente. It is the very least we can offer you, in our deepest gratitude, for all the good you have done for the people of Thedas," she completed eloquently.

Evelyn blinked back in surprise.

"I…Well…Thank you, Lady Chastaine. And…Markham," she smiled, genuinely touched.

The riders bowed in unison.

"Today we joust for Markham…and the Inquisition!" Lady Chastaine announced under a shower of applause. As the riders turned around, they noticed all the jousters from Markham were wearing arm bands with the Inquisition's heraldry.

Evelyn remained in dumbfounded silence as they rode away.

"Maker…" she whispered.

"Very elegant of them," Josephine added, impressed.

"They actually are very honored you are here," Cassandra seconded. "The Council has even said so."

"And here I was behaving so juvenilely and disparaging her. I feel like a huge ass," Evelyn said contritely.

"Fits the theme: huge ass, big ti—" Bull began to state.

"Do you need some chewy taffy, too, Bull?" Varric asked threateningly.

The first round of jousting began, with riders aligning in opposite ends of the tilt, hoisting their lances and preparing to charge. Voices died down and all eyes watched expectantly.

* * *

The sun had begun to set by the time the last match was fought. Lady Chastaine emerged victorious, as expected, and Evelyn found herself unable to begrudge the woman, since she dedicated her victory to the Inquisition. Ser Brigid did not finish among the top five winners, but she finished high enough to qualify for another tourney Evelyn was already lamenting they would not be able to attend. Varric had waxed long and admiringly on Revata's resilience and determination as she finished third, after some arduous and highly suspenseful matches. During one of the intermissions, Solas tried to catch the field hand's eye to participate in one of the ring-tilt competitions for the spectators; he was not chosen, he suspected, because he was an elf. Cassandra maintained, however, that it was because he merely waved his arm while remaining seated while other would-be contestants almost hurled themselves over the stands for a chance to participate. To everyone's surprise, Philippa Pentaghast upset Isaure Pentaghast's bid for the championship and they placed second and forth, respectively…although they weren't quite sure of the results until the awards ceremony; it was difficult telling them apart. Scarandello, alas, was disqualified before the tourney came to a close, but had succeeded in perpetrating the greatest coup for publicity that day: he'd hurled himself from his horse, across the tilt, to knock down an opponent onto the ground after taking umbrage to some mockery. The crowd went delirious and chanted his name for a solid ten minutes afterwards, as the judges confabulated, walked up and down the course list, and finally decreed the match void due to misconduct on Scarandello's part and unsportsmanlike behavior on the behalf of both jousters. Scarandello held the crowd in thrall as they cheered supportively on his behalf and booed derisively against his opponent.

Blackwall did not mind for one instant: Josephine had taken his arm and rested her head on his shoulder for consolation, seeking to commiserate with him on poor Scarandello's misfortune.

 _If only the moment had lasted longer,_ Blackwall would reminisce tenderly later on.

Cole stared out from the box as the crowds slowly dispersed among laughter and conversation, and the stands grew vacant. Only the surly cleaning crews remained, sweeping past the many aisles, and the field master ordered his helpers to pat down and level the course once more.

"Well," Varric stretched stiffly. "What do you think, Kid? Did you enjoy your first jousting tourney?"

"Yes," Cole asserted.

"Pretty exciting, isn't it?" Varric shared conspiratorially. "When all this…Corypheus crap is over, I hope to be doing this a whole lot more," he stated. He waved to Solas, who had begun to climb the steps to the exit. "Meet you outside—we're heading back to the inn, too," he called out. He checked on Cole, who was still admiring the quiet stands. "So which match did you enjoy the most?"

Cole looked at him with a surprised expression.

"Match?" he wondered.

Varric rolled his eyes.

"Don't tell me…"

"I liked watching the people more," he confessed.

"Hmm," Varric finally nodded. "It's true," he concurred. "Sometimes I like watching the people instead, too. It gives me ideas for my serials. I see an interesting face, or an intriguing conversation unfolding, or an improbable couple…and before I know it, I've got a new story to tell."

"It's funny," Cole continued, "how everyone seems to think they know how jousters could have had a better match, what would have led to victory," he revealed.

Varric smirked.

"Yeah…everyone's an expert…even though the majority can't even hold a lance properly."

Varric cast a longing look at the course as they began to head towards the exit.

Beyond those walls myriad summons and problems awaited them all. The future, how everything would turn out, was something of an unknown at that juncture, he surmised. But all of that was something to ponder tomorrow, he realized, with a satisfied, hazy smile, the air refreshingly cool and the sky starry.

"So many problems, and hurts, and complaints…but when people are here…they are lighter, they forget—they cast aside the things that weigh upon them. And all the feelings—such a rush of excitement, and suspense, and heartache…but at the end there is mostly… joy," Cole explained.

"Ah…that's right. It's the stuff of good memories, Kid," Varric sighed knowingly, patting his arm gently as they climbed up the steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, friends. It was longer than intended.  
> It's nice to be back. Hopefully you haven't given up on me. ;-)


	49. To Arms (Part I)

_“But I have my life, I’m living it. It’s twisted, exhausting, uncertain, and full of guilt, but nonetheless, there’s something there.”  
_ ― Banana Yoshimoto

* * *

_Why him, not me?_ she wondered during the bleakest stretches of their trek back to Skyhold. That any of them had returned at all, that they emerged from the strange realm to tell the tale fairly unharmed was miraculous.

 

All of it had been eerie—dreamlike and nightmarish at once, there being no clear dichotomy between beauty and horror at first, as they wandered through the carcasses of another time, other lives, cluttered minds. There the water did not slake her thirst, nor the fire warm her skin, nothing did as it was told, shifting, treacherous… Or was it they who were alien? Their senses not native to that world, unfamiliar, hence, unwelcome? Even the sun glowed cold and bleary-eyed, a reflection, shimmering over the surface. It wasn’t until they had forged ahead that the etherealness of the world that enveloped them began to tighten into something dark, ominous and ugly.

 

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city…How could you expect to strike down a god?” the Nightmare had taunted her.

 

She saw them then, in her mind’s eye: Carver. Leandra. Bethany, lost to the Grey Wardens.

 

 _Now, Stroud’s been added to the list. He’ll find himself in good company, if there’s such a thing as an afterlife,_ she thought grimly. _Why I keep surviving, I don’t know,_ she frowned, her boots trudging through the fluffy snow that still dusted the mountain trail. _It is as if others step into the path of what is intended for me._

_It’s a curse._

 

“Fenris," the voice had said indifferently, "is going to die just like your family. And everyone you ever cared for…”

 

“Well, that’s going to grow tiresome quickly!” she’d quipped tersely, ramming a dagger into the midsection of some hideously elongated screeching shade.

 

She had remained calm during it all. That was an old instinct, a singular defiance that overcame any weakness; when incensed, she became particularly focused.

 

 _You’re going to taste my dagger down to the hilt for violating my mind_ , she’d thought, her hatred as sharp as the blade she wielded.

 

She’d pushed Fenris out of her thoughts. The Nightmare’s words had meant nothing.

 

 _We all die someday_ , she shrugged.

 

But she had offered to stay behind too quickly, trying to outbid Stroud.

 

 _Why him?_ she’d asked Evelyn afterwards.

 

“Because he would not rest until he'd found an opportunity to redeem the name of the Wardens. His sacrifice bears fruit for the Order,” Evelyn had explained. “It gives his life meaning, it symbolizes all the good the Wardens once aspired to…and perhaps will, again. You—your sacrifice would have meant nothing but grief to your loved ones.”

Stroud was an honorable man. More honorable than she ever was, she concluded dourly. _I wish I could simply blame this one on Clarel,_ she thought angrily. Things never should have gotten so out of control.

The final mile up to Skyhold was a relief and their stiff upper lips came undone: complaints of aches and exhaustion and hunger, cold, wet, and thirst acceptable only because they had an end in sight. They marched forward. She’d stayed back from the group for a bit longer, allowing the Inquisitor and her entourage to go ahead. Hawke had been toying with the idea of slipping away again, disappearing into Orlais and making her way north to Weisshaupt. It would definitely piss off the Nevarran, who insisted in a formal debriefing, if she simply vanished.

 

But she couldn’t. Not when she’d cockily promised Varric she would return.

 

* * *

 

 

It hadn’t been until she wandered out of the War Room that she realized the somber faces around her could have just as well been uttering “Hawke” rather than “Stroud.”

 

 _Too close this time_ , she gathered.

 

Her impression was seconded when she saw the familiar ginger-haired figure push past the doors of the War Room and position himself in front of her with an angry, stern expression.

 

“Come here. You and I have to have a little talk,” he beckoned her with a finger as their group was dismissed after the debriefing.

 

There were only two people on that earth from whom Hawke would patiently suffer a talking down-to. One had been her mother, Maker keep her soul, and the other was the dwarf, who had no problem cutting through her elaborate spools of bullshit. She braced herself, because from what she could tell, she was in for it. Varric crossed his arms and examined her with a glare so deflating, she didn’t know what to do with herself.

 

He pointed at a bench.

 

            “Sit,” he ordered curtly.

 

_Oh, great._

 

That meant he wanted a face-to-face, for them to be on equal footing. She fell back on the bench, ready for the scathing reprimand she sensed was brewing. She was so sure about being in trouble with the dwarf that she didn’t understand at first why all of a sudden two arms had flung themselves tightly around her neck. Next thing she knew, her chin was resting over his shoulder and he was squeezing her.

 

“Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. Ever.”

 

She would have ordinarily made a silly joke, something along the lines of, “Don’t worry—I won't,  since you’re suffocating me right now,” or something as flippant. But she found her defenses easily crumbling, deeply touched by his gesture, and raised her arms to embrace him tightly as well.

 

“It’s all right.” He pat her head gently.

 

Somewhere in between being hugged and hugging back, she had started sobbing.

           

_I would have gone. I would have done it in a heartbeat if Evelyn had ordered me to._

_But, Maker, I’d much rather be here. Thank goodness I am here still. I may not deserve it, but thank goodness, my friend._


	50. To Arms (Part II)

"To show resentment at a reproach is to acknowledge that one may have deserved it."  
― Tacitus

* * *

Hawke calculated she must have slept for the entire day, she was so exhausted. On the morning of the second day, though, she forced herself out of bed.

_Time to go_. _Can't linger here too long. Got to keep moving._

She reported to the War Room, where Varric awaited her and she finalized her formal report to the Inquisition.

"How long are you staying for?" Varric asked her afterwards, as they headed out into the courtyard.

"Oh, I want to be on my way as soon as possible," she said, trying to convince herself of her urgency. "But…the healer told me I shouldn't bear weight on this ankle for a few days," she explained, showing him the thick bandage. She felt a little smaller and vulnerable as she looked down at her legs without her hefty leather boots. "Told me to stay put for four...five days—at the most."

The dwarf cheered.

"Good! It'll be like old times!"

Hawke cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Well...If you squint," he grinned.

* * *

Hawke listened in mild horror as the bard at the Herald's Rest sang a lugubrious melody:

"No promise surviving the Breach in the sky…" Maryden sang gloomily.

Hawke fumbled through her pockets, fishing out a few gold coins. She hobbled over to the bard during an break and pleaded.

"Can you sing something else? Something more cheerful? Not about breaches, rifts, templars, or demons?"

Maryden sniffed, slightly peeved.

"This is the music of our time, of our truth, and reality."

"Cheerful, please." Hawke asked.

"I'm sorry, but you are asking me to compromise my artistry and I can't—"

Hawke thrust the coins in her hand. At the sight of the gold, Maryden's eyes widened.

"Cheerful," Hawke repeated, pointedly.

"Cheerful," Maryden nodded, swiftly pocketing the gold.

Maryden watched her hobble back to her seat and began plucking the strings on her lute.

"Sera was never an agreeable girl…" she smiled, singing her one, lone, hit song.

_Better,_ Hawke decided.

She turned in disbelief to Varric, who had just brought over two robust tankards filled with ale.

"Maferath's balls—not even at the Hanged Man did we have to suffer such indignities!"

He smirked, slipping onto the bench in front of her.

"See? Everyone maligns the place, but it was actually quite decent. Besides, the cook there really knew how to prepare good, spicy sausage."

"Speaking of sausage connoisseurs," Hawke interrupted, taking a small sip of her drink. "How's Isabela?"

They both snickered.

They sat chatting for a while, the tankards of ale going down smoothly, as the tavern gradually filled up with more customers.

"Did you read through all the letters I held on to for you in your absence?" he asked.

"Some. Only the interesting ones. That means none of the business stuff. I'm still absent for those."

"And how is Bethany faring these days?" he asked casually.

Hawke tilted her head and offered him a cynical grin.

"Come on, Messere Tethras—you've already read through all those letters."

Varric shrugged.

"I know, I know…It's my job. But I want to hear your take on them, because sometimes you pick up on stuff I don't—"

"—And vice versa," she smiled broadly.

"So I'll go first: Isabela. Still no pants. Compensating for the lack of a dick with a gigantic hat—"

Hawke chuckled. "Yes, I concur."

"No news from Anders still…"

Hawke grimaced, taking a sip of her drink.

"He knows how to contact us if he ever wants to. Not holding my breath. Not sure I've forgiven him."

"Still angry at him?"

"He should have trusted us more. There had to be a better way."

"And according to Daisy, she and her clan are taking good care of Bethany."

"And according to Bethany, she is bored out of her mind." Hawke cracked a grin.

"Are there really any excavations or was it all a ruse?" Varric wondered.

"Let me put it this way: I had Aveline take her off to Merrill's clan and pay them a handsome sum to take Bethany off somewhere peaceful and remote under the pretext that they'd be seeking artifacts of their people and needing protection against Darkspawn."

"Do you think Bethany is buying it? They're on an idyllic beach on the northern Antivan coast!"

"I can see it already…Bethany scowling and stomping up and down the shore, ranting, on the prowl for Darkspawn, disturbing and frightening innocent beach goers."

"Sounds foolproof," Varric smirked.

"Hey, laugh all you want: Bethany is safe and that's all that matters. And Merrill has my full permission to hogtie her if she starts with any Calling nonsense." She paused. "Although I think the worse has passed."

"I'm just glad there are Wardens left to tell the tale."

"Yes," she agreed. "I'll drink to that." She raised her tankard.

"And Hawkes, as well," he added kindly. She said nothing.

_Whether she redeemed herself or not, I am pinning Stroud's death on Clarel,_ she thought darkly. _This should never have gotten so out of hand like it did._

"What did you think of Bodhan's letter?" Varric proceeded.

"That poor man. I will make it up to him someday," she sighed.

"He's more of a secretary these days—"

"A good, honest man, putting up with all the inquiries and other nonsense at Kirkwall for me."

"He gets to live in Hightown, though!" Varric noted.

"At a very high price."

"I imagine you are stopping by Kirkwall en route to Weisshaupt?"

Hawke wasn't sure how to explain that returning to her estate in Kirkwall felt too foreign. Not only did she think of the place more and more as a mausoleum, she wasn't sure that the terms 'go back' and 'home' could ever be applied to her fate. Her latest escapade almost proved it.

"Let's see what else: Aveline's still miffed at me…" Varric informed her, leaning back.

"I saw! She was miffed for a good half dozen pages in your latest serial, too!"

"You read that?" He grinned, pleased. "I thought I captured her rage quite well in that passage—"

"You do like to live dangerously…"

"You jest, but I have it on good authority that my books are a hit with the King and Queen of Ferelden," Varric said proudly.

Hawke smirked.

"Good authority…?"

Varric rolled his eyes.

"Fine…just gossip. But I'll take it."

They fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the bard strum and observing the lively crowd.

"You never answered my question. What are your plans now?" he pressed on.

Hawke inhaled sharply.

"Weisshaupt," she declared, hiding behind her tankard.

"Route?"

"Land. I'll try to avoid Tevinter. It'll be a long, dull trip. But I have to go. I need the Grey Wardens to know…"

Her mouth went dry and her eyes quickly welled.

_Keep it together, Hawke. Not here_.

Varric considerately averted his eyes.

"You should stop in Kirkwall before you set out."

She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Now that you've settled matters with the Inquisition, I doubt anyone other than the usual suspects will harass you."

She pushed the tankard aside and leaned over the table.

"What's brewing, Varric? Not your most subtle maneuver. We've talked about everyone except for one person here."

Varric blinked at her, feigning surprised at her calling him out.

"Who? Fenris? Why would I bring him up if you haven't? He's your business, not mine. Last I heard he was busy tracking down slavers somewhere in the Marches. Anything else is none of my concern."

Hawke sat back and contemplated him with an unconvinced stare before she began applauding him slowly.

"That was a _beautiful_ performance. Splendid." She raised her finger at him. "Know where you lost me?"

Varric chuckled, shaking his head.

"Bit on it not being any of my concern?"

"Exactly!" She crossed her arms approvingly. "You make everything your business. And I know a setup when I see one. What's up?"

He sighed.

"It was a little heavy-handed, I'll agree."

Hawke did not budge; she awaited his explanation.

"Listen, Fenris has been…more…communicative…since you dropped out of sight during the worst of this Grey Warden-Corypheus mission." His expression softened. "He is worried. That's all."

The wave of guilt surfaced once again. She had left Fenris behind without a proper explanation. She knew he would have followed her to the ends of the earth. She knew that if he'd gone with them into the Fade and Evelyn had ordered her to stay, Fenris would not have let her sacrifice herself.

And that, she would not have been able to live with.

_Heck_. She gripped her drink once more. _I can barely stand living with this now. It seems like everything I touch, everything I get involved with, ends up blowing up phenomenally. Interestingly enough, though, the only casualties are those I love or respect._

"Where did you go?" Varric called out to her.

"Sorry. I have a lot on my mind."

"All the more reason for you to stop by Kirkwall. It's spring…weather's nice…everything is in bloom…Take a break. Enjoy your estate for a bit. Let Bodhan and Orana take care of you. They would be happy to, you know. You owe it to them!" he teased.

"You're good," she admitted. "Play the guilt angle. That usually snags me."

"...And maybe while you are there, you could write Fenris a proper letter? Let him know you are all right?"

She cast him a sheepish look.

"I can't," she replied too quickly.

Varric rubbed his arm.

"Anything the matter between the two of you?"

She said nothing. How could she explain what a mess she had made of everything? That she'd left him one morning, promising to send word as to when he'd be able to join her, but instead disappeared without a further word, letting Varric handle any inquiries, as if Fenris were just another fist banging on her door.

_It's for his own safety_. She'd almost buckled a few times, during quieter, more desolate stretches of her mission, when the answers to the questions she'd set up to find became elusive and rarefied.

_What am I doing?_ she'd ask, loneliness striking her hardest in the middle of the night when she'd awaken and crave the comfort of Fenris' warm skin, the intensity of that clear gaze, the shelter of his embrace, his arms holding her tight when bad memories fueled her dreams. Even on the road, even as they led that errant, itinerant lifestyle, perpetually on the move, they had found a semblance of peace. Of happiness.

"Need ink and paper?" he goaded her.

She was behaving in a cowardly manner, she knew. And she had thought of writing to him many times, but always seemed to find an appropriate excuse: she did not wish to betray her location, the area she was in was not secure, she always needed to meet or travel or complete a task before writing him.

"This is unlike you," Varric scolded her. "This is _Fenris_ we're talking about."

"You don't understand," she asserted.

"You are right: I'm completely floored you are avoiding the man you presumably love."

"It's not that simple," she protested.

"Why are you behaving this way? He is a wreck worrying about you…and you are shunning him? Either something very bad happened before you two parted ways—a possibility I am less inclined to believe—or something else is going on with you."

"Like what?" she challenged.

"Like one of your stiff upper lips—not a good look on you, by the way."

She said nothing, a heaviness weighing in her chest.

"Here," he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small bundle. "Don't believe me? See for yourself."

Hawke stared at the neat print on the envelope, the handwriting unmistakable: she had seen it a thousand times before; heck, she had taught Fenris how to draw those letters in the first place. Her expression softened. She knew how much he hated writing. It was always a struggle for him. He was terribly self-conscious of his mistakes.

"Read them, then write to him," Varric ordered. "Whatever you decide, you must write and let him know. It is the decent thing to do."

Maryden had slipped back into some dismal melody and for once Hawke thought it was most appropriate.


End file.
